Rocks on the Road
by Bastille Kain
Summary: Hank Summers is framed for the murder of a controversial Senator while in New York.
1. Chap 1: Like A Rolling Stone

Author: Kain

Title: Rocks on the Road

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The character's of Buffy, Angel, and any other show that are unfortunate enough to be used here belong to other people.

Setting: BtVS- Post Chosen. L&O- Between seasons 12 &13. Marvel Movie Verse- After X2, Spider-Man & Dare Devil.

Summary: Hank Summers is framed for the murder of a controversial Senator while in New York.

Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Dawn/William, Willow/Kennedy, Faith/Wood, Faith/Logan, Scott/Jean, Hank/Isabel, Marie/Bobby

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Is always appreciated. Just try to keep it constructive.

Email: If you like it that much, sure. Just be sure to let me know where it's going, and give me the credit, good or bad, for my work.

_Chapter One: Like A Rolling Stone_

New York, New York. The city that never sleeps. Bright lights, from tall street lamps, cuts the darkness and burns the night away. A city where people rush around as franticly at midnight as at noon. If for entirely different reasons.

Some legal, some... Not so much.

Thirty-fourth street, outside the Loews 34th street Cineplex was as busy as ever with people jostling and bumping into one another as three different shows finish within moments of each other. At the same time, lines that have been forming for the last fifteen minutes or so, begin surging forward. Rushing to fill up the vacuum the exodus created.

"You know we're never going to here the end of it," Don Delacy informs his partner of the last three months, Juan Frienz, as the two of them cross in front of the mouth of a partially lighted alley. Despite being smaller then the giant Puerto Rican standing at his side by a good six inches and seventy-five pounds, Delacy normally wouldn't be considered small, standing five feet eleven and weighing a hundred and eighty-five. Next to Frienz though he almost looks like a child. "How they got a number one movie made about them."

Frienz takes a pull from his coffee as the two of them work their way back to their patrol car. He was still becoming use to Delacy constant chatter. The man could talk the ear off a corpse. "You seen it yet?"

Don nods. "Twice. Wasn't bad, not enough action for my..."

**KA-BLAM**

The gunshot rings out. Slicing through the other wise tranquil night.

People shout. People scream. People drop to the ground. People dash for cover. Most do a combination of things like giving a hoarse shout as they drop to the ground, or screaming wildly as they bolt down the street.

Frienz coffee drops from his hand as he reaches for his gun. He spins, towards the street so not to bring his partner into his line of fire, dropping to one knee, his pistol seems to jump into his hands.

At the same time Delacy whirls the opposite direction, towards the building, his automatic in his hand by the time he finishes his turn. His hand steady as he aims at the mouth of the alley they had walked pass less then ten seconds ago.

Time passes by in a rush while seeming to come to a complete stop. The two officers exchange quick glances, bare shifting of their eyes. Frienz rises to his feet as Delacy inches forward in a fast shuffle. Making sure that his partner stays out of his line of fire Frienz begins to circle out wide.

As the two men begin moving forward, a short, stocky man with dark strawberry blonde hair, graying slightly at the temples, and a short clipped beard, shambles out of the alley. His clothing, a dark blue pinstripe suit, was rumpled, looking slept in. There were dark spatters covering his clothes, his face, his hands. The man was moving like he was in a daze. Sleepwalking.

"Drop the gun!" Delacy shouts.

He lifts his head, slowly, as if in a dream. Then glances down at the gun in his right hand.

"Drop it!" Frienz yells.

He shrugs, the gun falling from his lax fingers to clatter on the concrete sidewalk. Then he stumbles ahead, staggering to the curb.

"Get down on the ground!" Delacy shouts as the two of them begin moving in. "Get down!"

Stepping down to the street, he drops heavily to the curb, shoulders slumping, his head drops down.

As the man who stumbled out of the alley drops to the curb Delacy and Frienz rush forward.

"On the ground!" Frienz shouts slipping his gun back into his holster. Delacy moves keeping the man targeted. A moment later Frienz tackles the man, driving him to the pavement. Flipping him over, smashing his face into the hard, unforgiving road Juan pins his hands to his back. Pulling out his handcuffs he glances at Delacy. "Go. Check it out," he says.

Delacy nods turning towards the alley. As he begins to move forward he pulls his flashlight from his belt. Pointing it into the alley he turns it on illuminating portions of the alley. As he pans the light across the alley he continues to move closer.

Some fifteen feet from the mouth of the alley, slumped against the right wall, at an odd angle, was an obviously dead body. From what he could see most of the man's face was missing. There's a dark blood splatter directly against the wall and a trail leading downward.

His suit was top of the line. Made from the finest material, the best cuts, and fits like it was tailored made. "Nothing like getting dressed up for your own murder," Delacy mumbles to himself.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Lenny slips around the young officer stringing up the yellow tape. "Hey Lenny," Green calls out. Lenny nods as he approaches his partner. "You just have to love a case that comes pre-solved."

Briscoe's eyebrows raise slightly. "What I love is not getting called away from dinner during the desert."

Green looks over at the older man, "So. Does this mean what I think it means. Lenny Briscoe was about to have a good night?"

Lenny looks down the alley at the covered body and shakes his head. "Anytime I've got to see something like that it's never going to be a good night."

"It certainly wasn't a good night for him," Green responds with a shrug.

"What do we have?" Lenny asks stepping pass an officer taking a statement.

Green follows flipping his pocket size note pad open. "One vic, Frank McCellum..."

"Isn't that that equal rights activist?" Briscoe asks his partner. Green shrugs not sure of who Lenny is talking about. "Some Senator or something. Read about him all the time. Going on about how mutants deserve equal rights. The same protection the constitution affords to everyone else."

"Don't pay much attention to that," he says with another shrug. Looking back down he starts again. "He still had his watch on. A gold Rolex. Wallet, over a thousand in cash, plus the plastic."

"So we can rule out robbery," Briscoe inserts.

"Pretty much," Green agrees. "Single gunshot to the head. Close range. One perp, Hank Summers, still had the gun in his hand when he came stumbling out of the alley, covered in blood, in front of an entire street full of witnesses. Including two cops." He flips his note book close. "According to Delacy and Frienz, Summers came bumbling out of the alley, a few seconds after a single gunshot, like he'd been on a three day bender."

"So the guy was messed up," Briscoe states.

"Guess we'll find out once we get the toxicology reports," Green answers.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The large screen television set clicks off, the screen going black. The airy television room is filled with a profound silence. Five of the six mutants in the room shocked, rocked to the very core of their beings.

Logan standing by the window on the far wall, where the smoke from his cigar makes a quick exit from the room, is the only one unfazed by the grizzly murder. Even Peter- the young Russian whose seen far too much carnage in his homeland- and Kurt- the three finger, two toed, blue skin mutant with a prehensile tail- haven't seen anything as horrific as this before.

For Jean, Scott, and Ororo the murder strikes a chord close to home. All three had known Senator Frank McCellum since their early teens. Occasionally helping out during his campaigns; stuffing envelopes, hanging up fliers, handing out pamphlets.

"Figures," Logan mumbles from his spot.

Ororo looks back, over her shoulder, to gaze at Logan. "What, figures?"

Logan lowers the mostly empty can of beer from his lips. "The only politician worth his weight in salt and he has to go and get himself killed. That's what figures."

"Being a little harsh aren't you?" Jean asks as she places the remote on the coffee table.

"I prefer realistic," he answers. He shoots a quick glance at Scott, the otherwise bane of his existence. He had expected more bark out of the boy scout, but so far he's been unusually quiet. An oddity in and of itself. "Everybody's number gets punched sooner or later."

"That's a rather callused view my friend," Xavier says rolling into the room. "Especially since most everyone here knew the Senator, did volunteer work on his early campaigns."

Scott rises from the sofa, even stiffer then usual. Jean glances up at her lover, a worried frown creasing her face as she picks up a strange vibe through the psychic rapport she shares with him. "He was the most outspoken proponent for equal rights between human and mutants."

"Do you believe Senator McCullem was killed to make an example of him? Because of his politics?" Kurt asks from his spot on the fire place mantle.

Logan shrugs saying, "People have been killed for less."

"Quite true," Xavier agrees. "I however would like to know for sure."

"You want us to investigate?" Ororo questions.

Charles nods as he says, "We are all intelligent. Each of us possesses various skills, powers, and abilities that the vast majority of people do not."

"We should keep the kids out of it for the time being," Logan advises causing most of the people in the room to either arch an eyebrow, gape slightly, or act surprise in some way. "Just because the craps out there doesn't mean we have to shove their faces in it. I'm not completely heartless," he finishes with a slight growl.

"Much as I wish we could shelter the children Logan. Some of their powers are going to be vital in gathering information," Xavier replies. Looking around at the gathered group he adds, "They've proven that they're capable of taking care of themselves under extreme duress any number of times. Tonight however we'll leave them be."

"How do you want us to proceed Professor?" Scott inquires.

Charles gives Scott a puzzled frown. He could sense something was troubling the young man, but like he had taught him, he's keeping his thoughts well guarded. It doesn't take much effort on his part to deduce what it is that is bothering him. If he wasn't so focused on discovering the reason why Senator McCellum had been killed he would have picked up on the fact when he first heard it.

The prime suspect, the only suspect, is a man named Hank Summers. The same as Scott's long lost father. Is it just some strange coincident he shares the same name and is approximately the right age. Or is he really Scott's father.

He puts the question aside for the moment. It would be better if he talks to Scott alone on this subject.

"You, Jean, Logan, and Kurt will check out the crime scene. Peter, Ororo, and myself will pay a little visit to the police station," he informs them.

Kurt teleports to the open door. "Just remember Logan. No smoking in the car," he remarks as he reappears.

"A moment Scott?" Charles asks as everyone begins filing out of the room.

"Sure," Scott answers with a shrug coming to a stop in front of the Professor. He gives a slight nod to Jean letting her know she should get ready.

"Sue me," Logan returns with a light glare.

"You'll at least keep the window rolled down," Jean remarks as she passes the Professor. "Unlike you, the rest of us don't have a healing factor to deal with the effects of second hand smoke."

Logan glance from Jean to Kurt. "Don't you just love it when she decides to take charge?"

Xavier swings his chair around to face Scott. Seeing the quite pain he stoically tries to hide, the old mutant can't help but have his heart go out to him. Even if he hadn't known Scott since shortly after his twelve birthday, more then seventeen years, he would still feel the same. Not as strongly, but the emotions would still be there.

"Are you alright?"

Scott's head shifts slightly as he looks down at Charles. "Why wouldn't I be?" Scott returns in a bland emotionless tone.

"Please Scott. We both know there is every possibility of this man being your father," Charles begins.

"Even if he is," Scott cuts in. A slight glimmer of anger cracking his voice before he stops. Recomposing himself Scott starts again. "Even if he is my father, I haven't seen him since he abandoned us when I was six. And if he did what he's being accused of, I'm not all that sure I'd ever want to meet."

"Of course," Xavier answers. "I didn't mean to suggest that you would."

"Then what did you mean to suggest?" Scott challenges.

Charles locks eyes with the man he hopes will one day take charge of the school, after he's retired. "To the point, I merely wished to find out if you were going to be capable of carrying out you duties as the team's field leader. Or if I should have Logan take command on this operation?"

Scott blanches at the suggestion. "That won't be necessary Professor. This isn't going to effect the way I run the team," he assures Charles.

Xavier nods, a slight, affectionate smile creasing his lips. "Good to know that. The thought of putting Logan in charge was... Troubling to say the least," he finishes confidentially.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Van Buren closes the door to her office, shutting out the chaotic din of the station house, as she follows Briscoe and Green inside. "Please tell me this case is as open and shut as all the paper work I've read makes it appear?" The Lt. says without preamble.

"Problems in the wonderful world Lieutenantdom?" Briscoe inquires.

Van Buren scowls at Lenny as she walks pass him. When she reaches her desk she tosses a small stack of phone messages on top of the organized clutter. "At last count I've had half a dozen of McCellum's fellow Senators, or the Senator's aides inquiring over the disposition of this investigation. Not to mention the Mayor and the Governor breathing down my neck. Then there's the fringe elements that think the good Senator got exactly what he deserved. And they're not exactly shy about making their feelings known."

"The case is as good as closed," Green replies. "With all the evidence against him, the guy might as well have confessed."

"I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I had that confession," she suggest with meaning.

Briscoe bobs his head as he says, "then why don't junior and me go and take a run at him." He lets out a light sigh as he straightens and turns towards the door.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A hard right hook punch slams into the side of Faith's head, spinning the brunette around. Her own spinning backfist drops Kennedy to a knee. At the same time her rising back kick clips Rhonda square in the chin, flipping her over onto her back.

A side kick smashes into her knee knocking her to the ground. Faith rolls to her side avoiding the heavy stomp to her head. She spins on the ground, her leg sweeping Chao Ahn's feet out from underneath her, dropping her to her back.

With a quick flip she lands back on her feet. At the same time all three other slayers land back on their feet as well. Faith does a quick shuffle in, her side kick smashing into Chao Ahn's face knocking her back.

Kennedy follows Faith in, her left cross smashing into the back of the brunette's head. The older girl twist away from the full impact of the punch. Her left arm locking up Kennedy's, as her right fist slams into Kennedy's jaw. A bare fraction of a second later Faith's elbow flies backward slamming into Kennedy's chest, while at the same time Faith's right leg sweeps Kennedy's left out from underneath her. Combined, the two moves send her crashing to the Hyperion's hard marble floor with a resounding thud as her head rebounds from the impact.

"That had to hurt," Buffy murmurs to Willow. The tiny blonde's legs swinging back and forth lazily as she sits on the counter in the Hyperion's lobby. Each time one boot heel hit the wood paneling it bounces back forward.

Willow smirks as Rhonda launches a series of kicks and punches at Faith buying Kennedy and Chao Ahn a chance to recover. As the strongest of the newly called slayers they all received personal lessons from Buffy and Faith. In other words, they were privileged to extra beatings from the two senior slayers. Then they got to pass on what they learnt to the others.

"I'll be sure to give it a kiss later tonight and make it all better," she replies.

Buffy returns her best friend's smirk. "I'm sure that's not where you're going to be kissing to make her feel all better."

Willow chokes slightly as color, a deep crimson, blossoms on her face. Totally and completely shocked that Buffy would say something like that to her. Not wanting to discuss her sex life with Buffy she instead inquires. "You feeling any better?"

A swift little move sends Rhonda crashing into Kennedy sending them both sprawling to the floor in a heap. "That's gonna leave another mark you'll get to kiss all better," Buffy remarks instead of answering Willow's question. The tiny redhead gives her best friend a reproachful scowl. Buffy sighs, "I'm feeling fine right now."

"Right now?"

Buffy's shoulders slump slightly. "So I wasn't feeling so good this morning," she answers.

"The same as yesterday?"

"And the day before, and a few days before that."

"So when's your doctor's appointment?" Willow questions becoming extremely concerned. In all the time she's known Buffy, she's had only become sick one other time.

"Doctor's appointment?" Buffy questions her face scrunching up in wonder. "What do I need to see a doctor for?"

Willow's eyes widen slightly as she glances at the blonde sitting next to her. "Buffy, that's what? A week you've been waking up with an upset stomach, vomiting. The smell of certain foods make you sick. God if I didn't know better I'd..." Her eyes widen again as she stares at Buffy.

Who stares back, a questioning look on her face. "What?"

In a tiny, soft voice Willow whispers, "are you pregnant?"

In the middle of the room four young woman come to a screeching halt at the word. "Damn B," Faith breathes out. "You went and got yourself knocked up?"

"Whose the father?" Kennedy demands.

"Anybody we know?" Rhonda chimes in.

Buffy hops off the counter, her glare sweeping over everyone. "First of all. No, I'm not pregnant. The last person I've slept with, not that its any of your business, was Spike, and like everyone knows vampires can make babies," she informs everyone present.

"And besides, that was more then a year ago," Willow adds in a nervous little voice. "No way you'd just becoming up pregnant now."

As Willow makes her little speech Buffy looks down, guiltily, at the floor. "Holy shit," Faith exclaims seeing the look on Buffy's face. "You were screwing Spike before the apocalypse."

"So what if I was," Buffy spits out. Her eyes pinning Faith to the floor. "I thought we were all going to die the next day. So I took what comfort I could. The same as you and you two," she adds looking from Faith to Willow and Kennedy.

"Whoa, calm down B," Faith begins picking her towel up from the counter. "Nobody here is saying you did anything wrong," she adds patting her arms down. Out of everyone there Buffy was still the only person who could routinely kick her butt. She had a lot of respect for the blonde, for everything she's been through- some of it her doing- but she wasn't about to back down.

"The night before," Rhonda starts. "That was like two..."

"Seventy-eight days," Buffy finishes without thinking about it.

"And now you're getting sick in the mornings?" Kennedy questions in disbelief. Turning to Willow she asks, "what was that you and Giles were talking about the other day? I'd just walked in at the end of it. Some scroll or something Wesley brought by."

"Oh, my god," Willow breathes out looking at Buffy.

"What are you people talking about?" She demands.

The door to Giles' office swings open allowing the watcher to step out. "Don't any of you believe in answering the phone?" He questions roughly.

"Turned it off," Buffy informs him glad for the reprieve. "Didn't want to be disturbed while evaluating the training session."

Giles scowls at the girls as he steps forward. "Its for you," he tells Buffy. "You can go ahead and use my office."

Buffy moves around Willow and the other slayers heading for the open office door. As she passes Giles she says, "and can you please convince everyone out here that vampires can't have children like shiny happy people?" With that she steps inside Giles' office and closes the door.

Giles' curiosity filled gaze follows Buffy until his office door shuts. With that he turns his attention towards the other four girls in the room. "What was that all about?"

"Before the last apocalypse, well. Buffy kinda, sorta had sex with Spike and the last week or so she kinda, sorta not been feeling good. Like she's been sick in the mornings and not any other time of the day and you have this prophecy about an ensouled vampire having a baby."

Giles blinks at Willow's round about explanation.

"B went and got herself knocked up with Spike's kid before he went and brought Sunnydale down," Faith simplifies.

"Hello," Buffy says into the handset.

"Is this Buffy Anne Summers?" A very young, very female, very Hispanic accented voice asks.

"That's what my birth certificate says," she quips lightly.

"You have a sister Dawn Marie?"

"Wow two for two," Buffy answers. "You wanna tell me what this is all about?" She asks.

"You parents..."

"Hank and Joyce," She growls. "Divorced in ninety-six. Anything else or our we done now?"

There was a brief pause as Buffy imagines the woman blinking at her response. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention to upset you. I've been trying to reach you for nearly two days. I was beginning to lose hope of ever finding you."

"Well you found me. Now, why are looking for me?"

"My name is Isabel Tamara Summers..."

"If you're trying to track Hank down he's somewhere in Spain," Buffy says cutting in. "Fact is I haven't seen my father since ninety-seven. He didn't even bother showing up for Mom's funeral."

"You misunderstand," Isabel says into the slight silence. "I'm not Hank's daughter. I'm his wife..." Buffy drops into Giles' chair, her mouth going slack as the words tumble through her head like a run away rocket. "We're not in Spain, but in New York. We were on our way to California to find you and Dawn, but... There's been a terrible mistake. Your father, my husband... Hank... He's been arrested for murder. He needs you..."

"He needs," Buffy growls only coming back to herself in time to hear the last statement. "Where was he when Dawn needed him?"

"Buffy. Please," Isabel pleads. Buffy could almost hear the tears in the young woman's voice. "He needs you Buffy, we need you. You and Dawn. You're the only family he has. The only family we have."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Briscoe sighs as he leans back in his chair, tossing his pen onto the table. Two hours now and they were no closer to getting a confession then when they started. If anything they were further away.

"Why don't you just come clean," Green gripes. He was getting more then a little tired of hearing the same story of being at dinner with his wife, going to the bathroom and then having a cop shove his face into the ground. "Everyone knows you killed him and the DA can get really vicious when you make them do more work then they have to. Like prosecuting a case..."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I have know idea what you're talking about!" Hank snarls leaning forward. In the last few hours he hasn't been given a choice about anything he's done, nobody has told him anything. He catches vague snatches of conversation that he knows are about him. Sees people look at him with disgusted, hateful, and loathing glares and so far nobody has said a word to him. Worse are those that cheer him on as if he's some kind of idol or icon. A role model for some cause and he doesn't understand any of it.

"The guy whose head you blow almost clean off," Briscoe responds. "Its not really the kind of thing you forget. What was it? Didn't like his politics, or maybe it was just the way his breath smelt?"

Hank pushes the chair back and rises to his feet in a rush. Tossing his hands into the air he grumbles something unintelligible as he turns away. Both detectives stand, their chair legs scraping loudly on the tiled floor. "You wanna sit back down?" Green request.

Hank glance back over his shoulder. They had taken his coat, his fingerprints, his shoes. Just about every indignity they could subject him to, they had and he was getting tired of it. Getting tired of being nice and reasonable to these people.

These two were worse yet. Come in demanding he confess to some crime he didn't commit. Not listening to a word he says. "As a matter of fact, no. I don't wanna sit back down," he finishes answering in a fair imitation of Green's accent.

"Sit down," Briscoe orders taking a menacing step closer towards Hank.

His eyes shift to Lenny, burning with a pent up anger and just waiting for an excuse to unleash it. "And if I don't? Then what, you and your buddy here help me sit down? They've got a word for something like that. Police brutality."

"Aw, hell no," Green mutters taking a few steps forward.

The door swings open without warning. An average size man with light brown hair, wearing an above average cut suit stepping into the room. A pair of dark glasses cover his eyes, and the cane swinging from side to side before him, in a small sweeping arc, tapping the ground occasionally, lets everyone know the man in question is blind. Despite that, his gaze seems to settle on Green. "Not planning on doing anything rash detective?" He inquires in a voice just smooth enough to bristle both men.

"You must be the attorney for the accused," Lenny mutters.

A slim, young Hispanic woman, her stomach heavy as she enters the last few months of her pregnancy, slips past the young attorney. Her long black hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail exposing her sleek and very graceful neck along with her lightly bronze skin. Her clothing while being both simple and functional still hold a touch of elegance not normally seen in maternity clothes.

She seems to cross the room in the blink of an eye. One moment she was by the door the next she is at Hank's side. "Isabel! Agradezca a dios que usted es todo a la derecha," he states as her arms wrap around his waist. He returns the embrace just as fiercely. His large hands engulfing her as he strokes her back, her hair. The top of her head barely reaches the top of his chest.

Isabel leans up on her toes capturing Hank's mouth with hers in a passionate, but brief kiss. Pulling back she starts speaking in a rush. "Era así que preocupado cuando usted desapareció del restaurante... No sabía qué le había sucedido. Entonces cuando el policía dijo él no podría encontrar ninguna muestra de usted que era secuestrado que tendría que esperar veinte cuatro horas e hice y archivé todos los informes apropiados. Ahora le encuentro aquí y el policía dice que usted ha hecho algo horrible."

Lenny stares at the pair. The man was nearly his age and he was fairly sure the girl was quite a few years younger then his daughter.

"In case you gentleman haven't noticed, this interview is over," he informs them. Pushing the door all the way open he inquires, "why don't we step outside and give them a little privacy?"

Briscoe shrugs as he gives Green a disgruntle scowl. Turning he picks his pen up off the table and follows his partner towards the door. "After you," the attorney murmurs gesturing them out.

"So counselor, do you come with a name or just a cane and a lot of attitude?" Green questions stepping through the door.

"Murdock, Mathew Murdock," he answers stepping out of the room almost on Briscoe's heels, pulling the door close behind him. His cane sweeping the area in front of him.

"Well Mr. Murdock. It appears you've taken a bite to big for even you to swallow without choking on it," Southerlyn comments. The scorn emanating from the blonde attorney is an almost palpable force.

Mat smiles sadly as he says, "so good to see you again Serena."

"You're gonna have a hell of a time getting your client off," she replies. "His fingerprints on the murder weapon. Senator McCullem's blood on him, his clothes and about two hundred eyewitnesses that saw him walk out of the alley seconds after the gun shot. Two of which happen to be New York's finest."

"But no one actually saw him pull the trigger did they?" His voice losing its softer qualities. "In fact since my client got up from his table at Da Tommaso, where he was having dinner with his wife, to use the restroom two nights ago, nobody has seen my client at all."

"But everyone knows exactly where he was at ten minutes to ten," Green informs him.

Murdock smiles at him. Just that. But it makes everyone feel as if he sees something no one else can. "I should probably check on my client now," he says. Turning back around, his hand flawlessly connects with the door handle. Turning the knob he pushes the door open and steps back inside the room and closes the door behind him.

Green looks through the one way mirror. "Now that guy just freaks me out," he comments. Murdock looks back at the glass, directly at Green. "What the hell is he looking at?"

"Get use to it," Serena advises. "Mathew Murdock. The original voice of the falsely accused, the disenfranchised, the underprivileged. And he wins far more often then he loses. Find out everything you can. The two missing days, his past, if there was a connection between the two."

"Sounds like this is personal?" Van Buren questions.

She turns her head towards the Lieutenant. "Our paths have crossed a time or two."

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The lobby of the Hyperion is a madhouse of activity as most everyone rushes about helping Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Faith, and Wood prepare for their unexpected trip to New York. Most everyone rushes about, a few however don't seem to be in much of a rush at all.

Willow tucks a stray lock of Kennedy's dark hair behind her ear. A soft reassuring smile floating on her lips as she says, "you're going to do great."

Kennedy gives her a rare, nervous smile. "I'm not so sure about that?"

"Buffy wouldn't have picked you if she didn't think you couldn't handle the job." Willow replies in protest. "Besides," she begins in a soft hush as she leans forward to whisper in her ear, "I know you're going to do great."

Kennedy feels a shiver run up her spin at the touch of her lovers moist breath kissing her skin. At the same time she feels a knot grow in her stomach that has nothing to do with pleasure. "You're not even gone yet, and I'm already missing you like crazy," she murmurs. A wicked grin flashes across her face. "Think we got time for a quickie?"

The saucy question causes Willow to blush a light scarlet. "I doubt it," she answers. A devious glint flashing in her eyes. "I'll call you as soon as we get checked in," she tells Kennedy.

"Hurry it up Willow. Give that girl of yours a big old smoldering kiss that leaves the rest of us weak in the knees and come on," Buffy shouts while trying to extricate herself from the current debates she's having with Giles and Dawn.

Willow blinks at the unusual note of command in Buffy's voice. Looking back at Kennedy she adds, "make sure you're alone."

"Giles. I'm going and that's all there is to it," the tiny blonde says in a level, but extremely aggrieved voice.

"I don't see why," Dawn responds before Giles can get a word in. "Its not like he's been there for us or anything."

"Because he is our Father," Buffy snaps. "Just because he was a selfish prick doesn't mean that we are, or that we're going to be."

"Buffy this is important," Giles manages to burst in.

Almost on top of him Dawn says, "fine. Just don't expect me to be nice to him," she finishes in a huff. She storms off taking two steps before stopping and turning back to face Buffy and Giles. "And don't expect me to call her mom either," she adds. With that she turns on her heel and stomps off.

Giles gives his head a slight shake at the young woman's outburst. Turning his attention back to Buffy he picks up where he left off. "If you are in fact carrying Spike's child, there are ramifications you are not aware of."

Buffy turns to face the old man saying, "if I am? Don't you think if I was meant to get pregnant with Spike's child, it would've happened last year when the two of us were going at it like mad bunnies on PCB instead of a one night, we might die tomorrow, stand on the eve of the end of the world?"

He lets out a deep sigh of frustration. "That might be so. But you're forgetting the spell that Willow did. It was meant to awaken, to bring to life, if you will, all the potential slayers. What if it also brought to life Spike's dead sperm as well?"

A disgruntle breath escapes Buffy. "Fine. While I'm in New York I'll take one of those home pregnancy test. When it comes back I'm not pregnant I'll be able to say I told you so." Glancing around the lobby she notices everyone else taken an interest in a lot of other things. "And that goes for all of you as well," she informs them. Raising her head she shouts, "Faith! Wood! Hurry it up!"

"I really wish we'd been able to get in touch with Xander," Dawn murmurs.

Willow shrugs as her and Kennedy fell in step alongside the younger brunette. They climb the foyer stairs leading to the bank of door. "So don't I, but he wants a life away from all of this."

"Sorry about that B," Faith says in a rush as her and Robin Wood come bounding down the top of the stairs. Her hair is rumpled, there's a slight sheen to her face, and an almost satisfied smirk quirking the corners of her lips.

"We... Uhm, were just having a little problem finding everything," Wood finishes as he hastily buttons up his shirt. A moment later he slips his jacket on.

Kennedy glances over at Willow. A small frown creasing her face. Leaning close to Willow she whispers, "they're not even going to be apart from each other and they had time for a quickie."

"That's Faith," Willow says with a shrug. Then lowering her voice so only Kennedy can hear it she says, "just remember to be alone when I call."

Buffy shakes her head at them. She wasn't jealous that just about everyone else was in a stable relationship and she wasn't in any relationship at all. Well not very much anyway. "Come on," she says. "We've got a plane to catch."


	2. Chap 2: Gutter Ballet

_Chapter Two: Gutter Ballet_

A slight barely perceptible scowl sits on Detective Lenny Briscoe's otherwise craggily face. He can think of about a thousand places he'd rather be then the city morgue. The place has always been far too quiet and somber for his taste. Even when there is noise it always seems out of place, like it didn't belong there.

Straightening his dark brown suit slightly, even though it doesn't need it, he looks over at his partner with a sigh. Green shrugs before shoving his hands into his pants pocket. Turning his head he glances at the white sheet covering the body they're here to discuss.

"Sorry about the wait there gentlemen," a distinctively English accented voice starts off startling both detectives with its sudden arrival. An average size man with nearly jet black hair, a little white at the temples despite a young, sharp face with an angular chin, wearing a doctors white coat, stands in the doorway, "but you American chaps come up with some truly ingenious toppings for your food." In his hands he holds a clear Tupperware container filled to the brim with melted cheese covered nachos. "Originally, when one of my new, American associates first introduced me to micro-waved cheese and nachos I was aghast, wondering how someone could put something so revolting into their mouths, but once I tried one I just couldn't get enough them."

"Give it time," Briscoe mutters.

"What was that?" The English doctor asks with a curious glance at Briscoe.

Before Lenny can answer Green speaks up asking, "what happened to Rodgers?" There's something about the man that puts him on edge.

"Ah, she's taking a long overdue and much deserved vacation. I believe the south of France."

Green nods relaxing a little. Very little. It's in the man's eyes. The way he looks at them as if they're nothing more then an experiment waiting to happen.

"So you're the replacement," Briscoe states.

A haughty snort slips past his lips as he says, "hardly. Where are my manners? Nathaniel Essex, formerly of London, England. I'm here doing research on unnatural causes of death."

"You trying to tell me nobody gets murdered across the pond in jolly old England?" Briscoe inquires with just a hint of sarcasm.

"They have their fair share, but no where near the numbers you chaps have. How rude," he murmurs to himself. "Nacho!" He offers holding the Tupperware out to them.

"No thanks," Green answers waving them off.

Lenny shakes his head. Pointing at the covered body he starts to say, "What about Senator McCellum?"

"I don't think he's hungry," Essex responds dryly earning sharp glares from both detectives.

"What can you tell me about the body?" Green responds taking a serious dislike to the man. It's not like he hasn't heard similar comments from a hundred other doctors. He just doesn't like the man. Hasn't since he first set eyes on him.

Essex looks at the table holding the body, then with a negligent flip tosses back the cover. Looking at the body he plucks a cheese laden nacho out of the container and begins eating. Walking over to the counter he places the Tupperware bowl down on the Formica surface and opens a folder, perusing it carefully. "Now this is an interesting case. You would think the gunshot wound to the head would be the cause of death."

"Its not?" Green asks too stunned to think of anything else.

Essex shakes his head slightly. "Somebody's gone to an extreme amount of trouble to make you think Senator McCellum died in that alley."

"What are you talking about?" Briscoe demands.

"Well, to answer your first question this body could have been dead for a week."

"That's not possible," Green starts. "We," he gestures between Briscoe and himself, "along with half of New York saw the body less then an hour after it was shot."

Essex shrugs at Green's vehemence. "I can only tell you what science has proven. I found traces of Kermentlorin in his blood. It's use to keep dead bodies fresh, holds off rigor-mortis, decay. Its effects can last as long as a week."

"How come we've never heard of this before?" Briscoe inquires. "If it does what you claim it'd be the perfect way to set up an alibi."

"It would," Essex agrees smugly. "Only it's very rare, very expensive and the dose needs to be very precise to last the desired length of time. Not too long, not long enough. If its administered right its absorbed into the body and is untraceable. If it isn't its easily detectable to someone who knows enough to look for it."

"And you just know enough to look," Green comments.

"As I said, unnatural causes of death," Essex responds with a smug grin. "Now to the truly interesting aspect of the case. This isn't Senator McCellum."

"What?"

"Gentlemen, please. Allow me to finish before going into hysteria," Essex snaps. "Now there was a small amount of cellar degradation that showed up in the labs. Without further testing I can't be positive, but I'd be willing to wager the royal treasure that what you have here is quite possibly the first human clone."

---------------------------------------------------------------

A couple hundred feet down from Loews 34th street Cineplex, a trio: two men and one woman, enter the ally, ignoring the police tape as they go. The shorter man, wearing a thin, mildly beaten, black coat moves like stalking panther; cautious, nose scenting the air, eyes darting, searching for any sign of his quarry or the unexpected challenger to what is his.

The other man, his average length light brown hair is partially hidden by his ruby quartz visor, at just over six feet is easily half a foot taller then his companion. He moves like a professional soldier, stiff back and rigid, but with apparent readiness to move in any direction at any given moment.

The woman with her fiery red hair cropped short, a little bit of a spike to it, is closer in height to her husband then her feisty companion. She walks down the alley with a dainty, almost reluctant step.

"Now I remember what it is I hate about cities," Logan remarks crinkling his nose at the stench filling his nostrils.

"Anything?" Scott asks sounding more demanding then normal.

Jean glances at Scott, concern shining in her eyes. Ever since the Professor had given them the details of the case Scott has been on edge. Without thinking she lightly lays her hand on his forearm sending him a silent message that when he's ready to talk she'll be there ready to listen.

""Lots. despite the boys in blue crime scene doing their best to wipe it out," Logan replies unconcerned about Scott's temperament or why he's been extra terse all night. He stops right in front of the blood smeared wall as he continues, "though most of it you two wouldn't want to know what it is. Not even sure I want to know," he mumbles at the end. "Your senator buddy was standing here, shooter right there," he frowns, scenting the air again. "Something's not right here," he says aloud.

"What's that?" Scott demands as if pouncing on a wounded animal.

Logan shakes his head, a harsh jerk. "I've got the shooter. I've got the shot. I've got the impact, the blood splatter. What I ain't got is a death scent."

"A death scent," Jean murmurs her confusion evident in her voice. "What's a death scent?"

"Everybody's scent is unique…"

"Like a finger print," Scott states

Logan shakes his head. "Fingerprints ain't as unique as the police'd have you believe. A person's scent is. Except for identical twins, but even theirs isn't exact, just a little harder to tell apart. When some one dies it changes, goes from living to dead. The person that was shot here, their scent didn't change."

"So either they didn't die," Jean begins.

"Or they were already dead," Scott finishes for her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kurt latches onto the flag pole that extends from the side of building. Loops it twice and sends himself vaulting high into the air. He vanishes in a burst of gray sulfurous smelling smoke, that nobody is around to smell, and reappears sitting atop the head of a stone gargoyle.

He can't help the small smile that creeps across his face. He loves the rush he feels every time he's able to perform, whether under packed tents with thousands of fans cheering him on or where no one can see what he does. Now in a city of millions its like performing in front of the largest crowds in the world even if nobody ever does see him.

Tonight's performance though is more of a patrol, searching the surrounding area for anything unusual that those stuck on the ground might not find, but could be revealed by his unique perspective. A small earpiece and a miniaturized throat mic enable him to keep in contact with the rest of the group.

Plus there is always Jean in case of a sudden emergency.

A small button on the belt he had been given is suppose to turn on the mic and earpiece. All he has to do is hope he hit's the right one.

"I knew I should have put my reserved parking sign out," a friendly sounding voice comments coming from above and behind Kurt.

His head whips around as he crouches low going nearly to his stomach. "Unglaublich," he breathes out in astonishment as he looks at the upside down standing Spider-Man. Even in Europe his exploits are legendary. Probably even more so then they are in America. Left leg straight, foot pressed into the underside of ledge, right leg crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his chest, and head cocked slightly.

"Bless you," Peter replies having absolutely no idea what the pointy ear, blue skin man just said, but not wanting to admit it, as Kurt rises to his full height.

"Dieses ist unglaublich. Niemand im Circus wird glauben, daß ich Sie traf, wenn ich ihnen schreibe und erkläre," Kurt jabbers excitedly for a moment before realizing he's speaking his native German. "Ach," Kurt burst slapping himself in the head and silently cursing himself for being nine different kinds of fool. "It's an honor to meet you," he finally says extending his three digit hand.

"And you are?" Peter inquires cautiously as he extends his own hand.

"Nightcrawler," Kurt answers instinctively giving Spider-Man his stage name as their hands make contact.

Peter's eyebrows raise slightly under his mask as he replies, "not really a name to inspire a whole lot of friendly feelings."

Kurt shrugs slightly. "It's my moniker from my days in the Munich Circus," he tells the masked man standing upside down. "It has much more crowd appeal then Kurt Wagner," he explains.

"Of course it does," Peter responds. Getting the feeling that something isn't quite right, he shifts his head looking all around.

Out of nowhere five bright circular lights flare in the night sky dazing the two young men. The light fades returning the night to it's previous translucence. Only now hovering in the air are five, silver armored men of almost identical size and stature that stare at the two hero's through glowing golden eye plates.

"Looks like the boss was right," an electronic amplified voice comments. "A bunch of freaks sticking their nose in where they ain't wanted." He finishes raising his hands palm facing outwards.

Another tingling sensation runs up the base of Peter's spine all the way to his skull. "Get out of here," he yells flipping himself into the air.

Kurt hesitates just a fraction of a second too long as he watches a small circular slip of metal spin open in the palm of each hand. Just as a bright crimson beam lashes out he ducks down slipping to the underside of the statue. The beam hits devastating the statue's moorings.

Just like that it and Kurt are plummeting downward. With a small pop Kurt, along with a chunk of the statue disappear, leaving behind a gray cloud of smoke.

Peter shoots out a web-line snaring the falling hunk of stone as five armored mercenaries prepare, two taking aim on the vulnerable Spider-Man. With a massive swing Peter brings the heavy chunk of stone back into play hurling it into one of his opponents. It shatters into hundreds of smaller, less deadly debris but sends the man sailing backwards. Faster then a blinking eye he fellows as two other mercenaries open fire blasting chunks out of the concrete where he had been sitting.

Kurt appears above the man who fired at him, who looks up apparently astonished. He drops quickly swinging his impromptu club for all he's worth. The concrete shatters harmlessly on his armored opponents head.

Peter slams his adversary into the corner of another building crumpling the brick and mortar with the force of their impact.

Kurt instinctively grabs hold of the man's head, swings himself up and over driving his feet into his armored chest. Kurt flips backward landing on the side of a building.

A third punch crashes into the man's steel plated head and Peter silently curses as he feels his knuckles bruise. He barely has time to react to the punch that threa5tens to take his head off. As it is it's a glancing blow that'll leave his head ringing for days.

He leaps away as his uncanny sixth sense warns him of danger. A bare fraction of a second later two sets of crimson beams pummel his sparing partner for a moment. He simply brushes himself off as his eyes look on Spider-Man.

Peter flips diving down, shoots out a web-line snagging a flagpole. Swinging downward he builds his momentum. At just the right moment he release his web-line.

Suddenly Kurt appears in a sulfurous smelling gray cloud of smoke. "Allez…" He begins grabbing hold of Spider-Man. Disappearing -- leaving behind an even bigger cloud -- and reappears directly in front of Peter's target, "…OOps," he finishes. He hits with twice as much force as he would have normally. The armored mercenary flies backward crashing completely through the brick wall and into the building itself.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"… and this man is your father," Jean remarks with a frown. Her fingers tightening their hold on Scott's hand.

Scott shakes his head, a minor tussle before saying, "it might be. I was four years old the last time I saw the man. Haven't even seen a picture of him since the fire when I was six. Hell, the man doesn't even know he has another son. Just disappeared, as if he fell off the face of the planet."

"Now you find out he might be a cold blooded killer," Logan remarks intruding upon their privacy. With a quick flick his Zippo comes to life lighting the end of his cigar. With a few deep puffs a thick cloud forms over his head. "There's something else," Logan comments as he begins searching the alley anew. "How'd they get in here?"

"Walked," Scott deadpans.

"Wish it were that simple," Logan replies. "These two just appear. Right where they were standing."

"Cyclops, Wolverine," Kurt's voice comes in over all there communicators.

"Crap," Logan snarls pulling his hand to his ear.

"Cyclops here. What's your situation Nightcrawler?" Scott questions demanding an answer.

"Not very good mien friend," Kurt replies.

"Can't we get a volume control on these things," Logan gripes.

"We could use a hand up here."

"We?" Jean inquires.

Before Kurt can respond a brilliant, blinding light erupts from the end of the alley. Logan's claws spring forth. Jean ducks her head trying to shield her eyes. "I've got six contacts," Scott calls out, his eyes shielded from the light by his ruby quartz lenses.

Jean shakes her head. "Their shielded in some way. Maybe their armor? I can't pick up any psi patterns from them. No thoughts at all."

"Must be some hell of a good shielding they got there," Logan growls scenting the air.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" An electronic voice taunts in a slightly British accent. "If it ain't three blind mice," he adds as the light fades.

"What's going on?" Kurt demands, his voice sounding frantic.

"Not so blind," Scott murmurs unleashing a low level optic blast that punches the speaker back into the wall.

"We'll have to get back to you Elf," Logan says rushing forward. "We got a welcoming committee all our own."

One, then a second soldier launch into the air. They're quickly followed by a third and a fourth. A fifth tries to follow suit only Logan crashing into him, his greater then normal weight too much for him to lift off carrying.

Scott rolls forward avoiding a hail of crimson beams rain down. Two, three, a fourth ray crashes into Jean's telekinetic shield driving the redhead to her knees.

"Jean!" Scott shouts.

**_Move_**! comes Jean's telepathic shout.

Without question Scott dives to his right as the armored mercenary he shot moments earlier zoom past.

With a savage grimace Jean mentally latches onto one of buzzing men peppering them with constant fire, and rips him from the sky pulling him to the earth at super sonic speeds. He hits with metal crushing force that leaves a small crater in the pavement.

From the back of the alley an explosion rocks the area. The concussive force of the blast knocking Jean and Scott off their feet as all the windows lining both walls shatter.

Logan pushes himself to his feet. His jacket a smoldering ruin, his body knitting itself back together. "You guys don't have to worry about playing nice with the sunshine boys there."

"Logan!" Jean shouts getting a good look at his broken, bleeding, and burnt body.

"I'll be fine," Logan responds keeping Jean at a distance. "Hurts a hell of a lot worse then it looks," he jokes lamely.

"What happened?" Scott demands watching the skies.

"Tried to open one of those tin suits up, must've hit one of their critical systems… Or something," he adds with meaning.

Scott glances back at Logan, a sick expression crossing Jeans face. "You killed him?" Scott asks

Logan shakes his head. "Wasn't nothing to kill," he states.

Scott looks confused for a brief moment as Jean says, "they're robots. Androids. No wonder I wasn't able to pick up any psi pattern."

"Are you sure?" Scott asks Logan.

Logan smiles, more of a half smirk, as he answers, "wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't."

A slight scowl settles over Scott's face. "Did you catch that Kurt?"

"Most, robots, androids. Oh my," Kurt's voice replies.

"Work your way back to us," Scott orders.

"In coming," Logan calls out shoving Scott one way and throwing himself another as crimson beams lance through the space they had just occupied.

The beams strike an invisible shield halfway to the ground and again Jean pulls it trying to repeat her feat of a few minutes ago only this time the armored suit is prepared to deal wit the force being exerted on it. Jean grunts sourly, sweat standing out her brow from the strain.

"Let go!" Scott orders unleashing his full strength optic blast. Instinctively Jean does as she's ordered. The mechanical man jumps skyward for a brief second before being able to recompensate. Scott's optic blast catches him full on, the incredible destructive crimson eyebeam launching him high into the sky-above the surrounding building- where it explodes in a small fireball. The concussive wave slams into the three remaining androids.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Piotr stands just behind the Professor's electric powered wheelchair as it smoothly climbs the ramp, just on the off chance that something might happen. The young man cuts an imposing figure standing six and a half feet tall, and his clothes seem to emphasize his sculpted physic instead of obscuring it.

Ororo walks at Charles' side, her purposeful stride bordering on regal. Her striking features, and pure snow white hair are a stark contrast to her dark chocolate complexion, draw more then a handful of admiring glances. From the detectives, officers, lawyers, and suspects exiting the building.

As they near top Ororo bends down slightly to whisper in Xavier's ear. "If you'll excuse me professor?"

"Of course Ororo," Charles replies. His eyes unconsciously slipping towards where Ororo is thinking. He easily spots the blind man wearing dark glasses, a finely cut suit, and red cane trying, unsuccessfully, to make his way out of the front door as most people don't pay him the slightest bit of attention and jostle him to and fro.

"I'll meet you inside as soon as I'm able," she informs him straightening. She doesn't wait for Charles' nod before striding ahead. It doesn't take her more then half a dozen heartbeats to cover the distance.

Mathew Murdock sees the woman walking towards him as if on a mission like he sees everything else, a dark image set against gray back drop. Almost like a blip on radar.

With his hyper-sensitive hearing he easily picks up her heartbeat and breathing. Both of which are extremely strong, powerful just like her gait. If he had to guess he would say some type of professional athlete. Track and field, swimming, maybe soccer. His first guess would have been soldier except her hair is too long.

He had a feeling he knew why she's heading in his direction and it causes him to grimace internally. It wouldn't have taken him any effort at all to get past the teaming masses, if he didn't have to play the part of the helpless blind man.

"Excuse me," Ororo says forcing her way through the throng. "If you don't mind a little unsolicited assistance Mr.?" She inquires, lightly placing her hand on his forearm.

"Murdock…" He supplies taking a step.

"Like the Babylonian god?" She asks politely.

Matt frowns lightly at the question. "As in Mathew Murdock, attorney at law."

Ororo smiles, a small upturning to the corner of her lips. "Ororo Munroe, Teacher."

A puzzled look settles on Matt's face, most of which is hidden by his dark glasses. Without thinking he asks, "aren't you a little young to be teacher?"

"No younger then you to be a lawyer," Ororo comes back quickly the challenge clear in her voice. _Like a soldier_, Mat thinks to himself. "I just meant that you sound young. I'm use to teachers having these craggily voices and being like ninety years old. Or at least they seemed like they were ninety when I was just a boy."

"Than you weren't always blind," Ororo murmurs then grimaces at her words. "I'm sorry. That came out sounding extremely insensitive."

Mat shakes his head saying, "it's alright. Just about everyone I know has asked me that same question. I was a teenager when I lost my sight."

Ororo nods in sympathy as they near the bottom of the stairs. Technically Scott could see perfectly fine, but without his ruby quartz glasses to block his incredibly powerful, potent, destructive, and deadly optic blast he would be effectively blind himself.

"No sympathetic comment," Mat remarks dryly. "That's a refreshing change," he finishes a short heartbeat later. Mat suddenly feels the temperature dip a good five degrees as the wind picks up gusting a few times.

"In my life I've seen a lot of teenagers who have had their lives torn apart by events beyond their control. The fact that you're here, in the position that you are in means you've weathered your crisis, exorcised your demons and perhaps became a better man then you would have if you had retained your sight. Be thankful, many do not do so well as you," she finishes pulling open the cab door. "Your cab," she adds turning on her heel and walking away from.

Matt shakes his head as he slides into the cab pulling the door to behind himself. It had been strange. While the weather had been changing so drastically, Ororo's heartbeat, pulse, and respiration had accelerated as well. Like she was suddenly under a great deal of pressure.

Which isn't really that surprising considering how he managed to offend her. She did have a point though. If not for the accident that took his sight he wouldn't be the man he is today. No where close.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Piotr is completely astounded with the ease and skill Professor Xavier has maneuvered them into the holding area. The guards had been extremely polite and helpful when asked for assistance, but otherwise didn't pay them the slightest bit of attention. He would have asked the Professor about it, but he had been afraid the sound of his voice would break whatever spell was woven.

Charles puts his hand to his temple as Jean's voice calls out to him. The strain of the intervening distance pushing the young woman to her limits.

_Professor_.

_What is it Jean_? He questions while trying to strengthen her voice.

_There was an ambush, androids and some kind of teleportation field_. _We're holding our own_, _thanks in part to Spider-Man's aid_.

_Spider-Man_? He questions startled by the information.

_Long story you'll have to hear later_. _Just be ready in case they're after you as well_. With that her voice is gone.

"Is everything all right Professor?" Piotr inquires.

"That was Jean. It appears somebody anticipated our movements and had a surprise in store for Scott's team."

"Then we must hurry…"

Charles grabs hold of Piotr's arm holding him in place. "What we must do is complete our objective. Scott and the others are more then capable of taking care of themselves. While its unlikely that anyone would be bold enough to launch an assault at a police station, it is a possibility. So is the fact the attack on Scott and the others is meant to do nothing more then draw off most of the precincts officers allowing somebody to slip in and assassinate the suppose assassin before he has a chance to reveal anything. If he even knows anything."

"Forgive me Professor. I didn't think…" Piotr begins downtrodden.

"Nonsense Piotr," Xavier cuts him off. "You thought with your heart, with concern for the safety and well being of your friends. Never apologize for that."

Piotr nods at Xavier admonishment. "Shouldn't we warn Storm?"

"Already done," Charles remarks with a grin. "Now lets get what we came here for and get out."

--------------------------------------------------

Willow snuggles sleepily into the large blanket the stewardess had been generous enough to give her earlier in the flight, when she requested it. Right before her phone call to Kennedy. She's ready to fall asleep, tired beyond words, but in that totally content, fully satiated kind of way that holds sleep at bay.

With heavy, sleep lidded eyes she continues to stare out the plane's little porthole like window. It takes her more then a few minutes of gazing at the distant lights to realize that they represent the rapidly approaching New York City.

Sitting up slightly she leans into the window trying to get a closer look at, what most people consider the greatest city in the world. She knows it was foolish, that a few inches weren't going to get her into New York any faster, but still. It made her feel like she's contributing.

She narrows her eyes as something, deep in the heart of the city catches her eyes. A brief flash of crimson, like a thin streamer, zips into the night sky.

"It could've been anything," she murmurs as she tries to focus in where the flash had come from.

A trilling double beep chimes filling the cabin. A second later the captions dulls voice begins to drone. "We are…"

She misses the rest as Buffy plops down in the seat next her with a, "thank god you're off the phone. I don't know how Dawn could fall asleep with Faith and Wood two rows back."

Willow reddens slightly but hopes in the dim light Buffy doesn't notice. Instead of keeping her mouth shut though she says, "probably because she doesn't have slayer hearing."

Buffy scoffs muttering, "with as loud as those two are you don't need it. I would've stopped by earlier but I noticed you were on the phone with Kennedy."

Willow's face brightens again and this time she knows Buffy can see it because it lights up the entire cabin. "So what have you been doing?"

Buffy rolls her delicate looking shoulders. "Just walking around. Talking with whoever happens to be awake. The stewardess mainly, a few passenger, the pilot, navigator, now you."

"Aren't you tired?" Willow questions, concern etching her face. Buffy shakes her head. "Not even a little?"

"Nope."

"Excuse me," a tall, dark hair stewardess begins leaning forward.

"Hi Jenette," Buffy greets in an overly chipper voice. A broad smile splitting her face.

"Hi Buffy," she replies in a friendly tone. "We're going to be landing shortly so we need you to put your seatbelts on."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Scott dives and rolls to the side avoiding three crimson beams fired from above. With a quick glance he surveys the battlefield. Logan, like him is stuck on the ground. Unlike him Logan has no way of reaching the five silver androids that fill the air, who at one point tried to drop a building on them. If not for Jean's telekinetic shield protecting them he'd be buried under several hundred tons of concrete, glass, and steel right now. After that the battle had spilled out into the street.

Jean has been using her power to keep herself in the thick of the battle alongside Kurt and Spider-Man. His speed, his strength, agility, and timely intervention has been an indispensable aid during this confrontation. The androids however have been proving extremely adept at adapting to each and every stratagem they came up with. What works against one doesn't against the next.

_Jean_, Scott calls out silently hoping she's listening for him.

_What's up honey_? Her rather excited voice comes back to him.

Scott frowns slightly hearing her tone, but doesn't say anything about it. _I've got a plan_, he informs her.

_Spider-Man_.

"Whoa," Peter blurts at the sound of the redhead's voice all around him. With a quick little back flip he avoids three different crimson beams.

_I'm speaking to you telepathically_, Jean informs him.

"In my head?"

_That's what telepathic_…

"You can't be in my head." He lands on the wall then leaps up into the air arching backwards at the apex. "Nobody's allowed in my head. Most days I'm not even there. Big signs; do not enter, stay out. If you wanna talk give me one of those nifty little ear pieces thingies." He finishes landing on the shoulder's of one android.

_If there was time I would_. _If they weren't compromised we'd even use them_. _As a show of good faith my name's_…

"Never mind. Just tell me what you need." He leaps off the android a fraction of a second before it blast him off from close range.

He can almost feel the redhead's disarming smile inside his head. _If you ever need help just look up Dr. Jean Grey_.

Logan slips forward then back avoiding two slicing beams without moving from his spot as the silver android swoops past. He growls in frustration as he takes a swipe at it that falls well short of hitting its mark.

The distorted pop of displaced air alerts him to Kurt's arrival long before the sulfurous smelling cloud of smoke or his feather light touch. "Cyclops has a plan," Kurt comments just before he triggers his powers teleporting himself and Logan. "Happy landings mien friend," he adds and disappears.

Logan looks down, eyes widening as the ground begins rushing upwards. "Why wasn't I…Ark." Then he spots the silver android growing larger. A ferocious grin spreads across his lips.

His adamatium claws slice through the silver metal like a red-hot, razor-sharp blade would slice butter. About half way through it's torso the android blows up in another concussive wave of force that would crush anything in range. Logan hurtles backwards at nearly the speed of sound and just barely holding onto consciousness.

Peter moves as fast as he can as Logan rushes towards him -- extremely grateful his precognition, his Spider-Sense, allowed him to get in the right position. "Fancy meeting you here," he says latching onto Logan just as he speeds past pulling him close and holding on tight, and praying to any god he thinks will listen -- which means any god he can think of -- shoots out a web line swinging them up with a hope gravity will do some good and slow them down before they have to worry about re-entry.

It feels strange working with other people. Having them depend on him and him having to depend on them. In some ways it almost feels like having a safety net, like he doesn't have to do everything himself. At the same time its an even greater responsibility because there are that many more people expecting him to pull his weight and do his part.

Kurt leaps backwards pushing himself off the side of the building. He vanishes in a burst of smoke and displaced air. Reappearing directly above one of the androids as it swoops past, dropping lightly onto the machine's back. Quickly, like greased lightening, Kurt grabs it's head and vanishes with it leaving behind a cloud of smoke in his place.

Instantly the android begins to veer and swerve erratically before coming to a sudden stop. Jean smiles from her vantage point and the headless android whips back the way it just came heading straight for another android. It swerves at the last minute avoiding the collision. Her grin broadens and her pawn takes off in pursuit.

Kurt lands amid the rubble on the ground, turns the silver head so he can look it in the eyes. "Alas pour Horatio, I know him well." With that he sighs, drops the head, and disappears with a soft pop and a gray cloud of smoke.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter lands on the roof, looking down slightly at the man called Wolverine getting his first good look at him. "You look like a ten mile stretch of road kill."

"They stop teaching tact in school boy?" Logan asks with a glare at the young hero. With a light shove he pushes himself away from Spider-Man's support. He stumbles a little but keeps himself standing upright by share force of will.

"You look like you could use a hospital," Peter replies concern for the amount of blood he's losing showing up in his voice.

Logan glares up at the gaudily clad young man. Blood oozing from close to a dozen wounds, the adamatium covering the bone visible from his chin to just below his eye on the right side of his forehead because of the flesh being torn away.

Even as Peter watches the flesh knits itself back together. "I'll be fine in a minute kid," he growls savagely. More from the pain then any hostility he feels towards Spider-Man.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scott tracks the android Jean's chasing like a hunter, or sniper, leading his target, measuring his shot. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He fires a full powered optic blast. A beam powerful enough to level a skyscraper. It hit's the lead android head on, square in the chest at an angle that sends it's fractured chassis soaring skyward.

The flagpole shivers rapidly from Kurt using it as a springboard to launch himself high into the air, but still falling away from the climbing android. He vanishes, a small pop and gray cloud marking his passage, and lands on the silver androids shoulders. They both disappear in a flash.

An instant later a pop and a cloud of sulfurous smelling smoke herald their arrival. Kurt vanishes as quickly as he appeared leaving the android buried up to his waist in the pavement, his momentum pulling it, and a large chunk of the pavement from it's waist down, arms dragging itself forward.

A lightening bolt slashes out of the clear blue sky blasting the androids chest apart. Another pair flash out of the sky, then a second pair. Each set striking the last two androids leaving them shattered husks plummeting from the sky.

Webbing snags the pair before they fall more then half way to the ground. "That seems just a little anti climatic," Peter notes critically as he lands on the ground next to Cyclops.

A thick layer of fog rolls in from directly under foot and quickly grows to encompass most of Manhattan dropping visibility to nothing. "Now if this a natural weather phenomenon…"

"The Professor sent Storm ahead, to land a hand." Jean informs the others lightly touching down next to Scott. She wavers slightly putting a hand to her head.

Scott's next to her in a heartbeat supporting her. "Are you all right?"

"Just a little fatigue," she replies with a nod. "I let the Professor know the situation is under control. He says good job," she says turning her attention to Spider-Man she adds, "and if you ever need anything don't be afraid to ask."

Kurt drops lightly to the ground as Scott steps forward extending his hand. "Thanks for your help."

"Mama always warned me about shaking hands with someone wearing body armor," Peter jokes lightly taking Scott's offered hand.

"Now all we have to do is find Wolverine," Kurt comments looking around.

"Yeah. About that," Peter begins. "That is one scary guy."

"Feel grateful he likes you," Kurt responds with a smile.

"Anyway, he said something about telling mama's boy, I'm assuming that's you," he says pointing at Scott, "that there was something he had to check out."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt comes to a silent stop on the top landing of the fire escape less then a foot in front of the landing edge of the nearly solid fog bank. He had picked up the police reports on his micro scanner after getting in the cab. Having the cabbie drop him off a few blocks away, and changing into his working clothes he got over here as quickly as he could. Lightening bolts out of a clear sky, and then this pea soup thick fog had sprang up out of nowhere.

He takes a deep breath preparing to launch himself into an environment that is going to effectively blind him. Fog so thick its going to scramble his radar making it next to useless, but if the reports are accurate, that there is some type of mutant rampage going on then he has no choice but to go in and do his best to bring it to a stop.

Below him somebody burst from the fog, a wraith moving among shadows. A heartbeat so slow if he didn't have the man's out line he would think he had been imaging it. And something else, something that's vaguely familiar. An odor he had just smelt earlier tonight.

A cigar scent that clung faintly to Ororo. It's the same fragrance, only stronger. He knows it's a stretch linking the two, but they're both so close together he can't help linking them.

In a blink the man is past him and half way to the alley's mouth. Fifty yards in under three seconds and still his heart rate hasn't elevated in the slightest.

Making a split second decision, and with no hint of fear, he launches himself into the air with the precision of a professional gymnast. Silently, to human ears, his grappling hook reels him in as he swings after the spectar.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buffy allowed the slowly building buzz of the early morning rush to wash over her as she uses her keen sight to peripherally watch Robin as he leads the four young women through LaGuardia's terminal while scanning the crowd for, she supposes, her new step mom. Absently she listens to the former Principle of Sunnydale High School drone on about New York City. It isn't that she's not interested in what he's saying. Most of the time she would actually put a little effort into feigning attention, it's just with everything going on right now she has other things occupying her mind.

Her father, Hank Summers and the predicament he finds himself in. His new wife. The fact Willow has been nagging her to buy a home pregnancy test.

"Buffy," a soft, feminine and very dainty voice calls out from across the terminal. Almost instantly the tiny blonde's gaze settles on the ravishing olive skin, raven hair, and a very pregnant young Latino. "Buffy. Dawn," she calls out again with a broad, sweeping wave of her arm.

Faith glances back at Buffy. Shifting her bag on her shoulder as she moves. "B," she murmurs softly.

"I see her," Buffy responds altering her course angling towards the young woman without waiting to see if anyone else follows her. A woman who is maybe only a couple of years older then her.

Dawn bolts after Buffy trying to keep up with her older sister. A nearly impossible task given Buffy's head start and her determination to reach Isobel as quickly as possible.

Willow steps up besides the young teen, placing a gentle reassuring hand on Dawn's shoulder once she gets a good look at her troubled expression. Dawn looks over, eyes wide. "Is it my imagination or…"

"She's pregnant," Willow confirms with a nod.

Dawn's face scrunches up giving Willow a , duh, look. "I mean she doesn't look any older then Buffy."

Willow glances at Isobel, actually noted the woman's physical appearance for the first time -- aside from thinking that, even pregnant, she looks positively radiant. "You're right," she replies a little squeamishly as she remembers just how old Hank is.

"Buffy," Isobel greets the petite blonde, a warm smile on her face that doesn't touch her sad eyes. Stepping forward she pulls the slayer into an affectionate embrace.

Buffy stiffens at the unfamiliar touch, the invasion into her personal space. Only on the rarest occasion did her closest of friends ever get this close, personal, or intimate with her. Even Dawn knows enough to keep her distance, though she seldom does.

Isobel pulls back slightly sensing Buffy's discomfort. "I'm sorry," she says still grasping her shoulder. "Hank's told me so much about you," she looks over Buffy's shoulder, her smile broadening as she takes in the rest of the group. "And Dawn," she adds after a short pause. "I feel as if I already know you."

The tension in her voice, her grip is nearly a palpable feeling. Buffy relaxes, slightly. She didn't have any reason to dislike Isobel, aside from the fact she had married her father and is apparently pregnant with his child.

She shakes her head mildly allowing a pleasant smile to slip across her lips. "You just caught me off guard…"

"Something that doesn't happen very often," Faith interjects with a smirk.

Buffy shoots a razor sharp glare at her fellow slayer. A look that slides off Faith. If anything her smirk broadens that much more with the blonde's pointed look.

"I wasn't expecting…" She stops searching for the words.

"Someone nearly as young as you and seven months pregnant?" Isobel finishes for Buffy with just the ghost of a smile creasing the corner of her lips.

"That would be it," Buffy responds returning the smile.

Isobel reaches out, brushing back a stray lock of Dawn's soft golden brown hair. "Such a beautiful young woman," she murmurs softly. Then with a firmer voice she adds, "the pictures your father has don't do you justice."

"That's because all the pictures dad has of me are stupid little baby pictures," Dawn answers, her tone more then just a touch acerbic. "Well they are," she responds to Buffy's questioning glance. "It's not like he's gotten any new ones in like four years."

"Maybe we should get out of the airport terminal, and someplace a bit more private before you guys have this conversation," Robin comments looking around.

Isobel looks over at Robin, a mild frown marring her features. Before she can say anything though Buffy says, "you obviously recognize me and Dawn, but I should probably introduce the rest of our group. This is Willow, my best friend since we moved to Sunnydale. The brunette is Faith, a colleague of mine and lastly her boyfriend and former Principle of Sunnydale High, Robin Wood."

Isobel looks the group over before returning her gaze to Buffy. "There's something more?"

Buffy nods saying, "there's a lot more."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early morning light streams in through the large, stately bay windows suffusing the pallor with a gentle, comforting warmth. Charles looks around at the assembled group, a few battered lightly but none the worse for wear. Everybody is showered, cleaned, and ready to begin.

Kurt squats atop the mantle looking mildly out of place amongst the gold and silver. At the far end of the mantle, next to the study's double door, wearing dark sweat pants and a white tank top is Piotr. He still fumes at not having a chance to stand with his teammates.

Ororo sits at the end of the sofa, a warm cup of green tea, with a wisp of steam rising upwards, cupped in her hands. Marie sits at the opposite end of the sofa, her opera gloves folded across her lap. Standing behind the couch and just to Marie's right is her boyfriend Bobby Drake

Jean sits in one of the room's many stiff back chairs. Standing just behind her, his right hand resting lightly on her shoulder, is Scott. His face set in a pensive mask. Jean reaches up with her left hand taking his in hers and squeezing it tightly.

"We can safely assume that there is somebody else, some dark presence in the wings manipulating events," Xavier remarks.

"I take it you found something out," Scott says his voice sounding calm, collected except to those who know him. To them the anxiety in his voice is easily evident.

Charles nods his head, a tight frown creasing his lips. "More then I thought I would, Much more, though little of any real value. Some of what's there…" He stops giving his head a disturbed shake. "I'm not the first person to enter Hank Summers' mind." He looks up at Scott an abiding sadness glistening in his eyes.

"So he is my father," Scott growls out barely keeping his temper in check.

"He believes you're dead," Charles replies quickly. Hoping to cool Scott down before he can boil over.

"What!" Scott exclaims softly staggering back half a step.

Charles takes a breath cleansing himself. "The day after Felecia, your mother, told him she was pregnant with Alex he want to work just like always. Later that day he remembers the police arriving at his office telling him his wife and son wear dead. He remembers going to the morgue, identifying the bodies, holding the funerals, selling his business, and leaving. Traveling for nearly three years before settling back down in California." He stops gathering himself. "He found himself a job, quickly moved up the ladder until he was accounted one of the firms top money makers. There he met and fell in love with one Joyce Davis. They were married, had two children and lived happily for fifteen years."

"But something happened?" Jean inquires though her question sounds more like a statement.

Again Charles nods his head. "He started having dreams, nightmares really."

"About what?" Marie asks.

Charles shakes his head. "Hank doesn't know."

"It doesn't add up," Scott mumbles. "If he was working he had to be using his social security number."

"He was," Xavier replies, "just not the same one. Somehow…" He gives his head another shake. "He just began using a different one and it didn't raise any flags."

"Did he leave them?" Scott asks with vehemence.

Charles sighs, the resignation clear in the sound. "About seven years ago."

Scott turns around running his fingers through his hair. "Then it really doesn't change anything," he remarks turning away. "He may not have abandoned one family, but he did another." Jean quickly rises from her seat placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

"He's been trying to find out what happened to him," Charles responds patiently. "For close to two years his mind has had him in a mire. He remembers one thing, but his dreams have been hinting at something else entirely. He went back to Maryland, but couldn't find your grave. Not surprising since you're still alive. He found Felicia's, but the dates didn't match up. The death certificates were wrong, according to what he remembers anyway."

"Perhaps we should concentrate our efforts on who attacked us this morning," Ororo suggest wanting to move on from what is obviously a painful subject.

"Whoever it is they obviously didn't want us investigating the crime scene," Kurt remarks in his thick German accent.

Scott shakes his head saying, "it felt more like a test. Seeing how we react, what are capabilities are and how we function as a team. Every time we dealt with one android the next one was just that much harder for us to deal with, forcing us to switch tactics, come up with new strategies on each one."

"Then we can safely rule out Magneto," Charles says almost sounding relieved. "He knows full well what each of you is capable of."

"Somebody new," Bobby adds.

Charles nods as he says to himself, "someone who knows more about us then we do about them."

"Somebody that's gone to a lot of trouble to frame Scott's father for murder," Piotr contributes.

"So is it someone that has a grudge against Scott, his dad, one of us, one of his other children, or does the guy have the worst luck of all time?" Marie asks ticking off her fingers as if counting off points.

"Its the same person," Jean burst out softly, as if a sudden light bulb flashed in her skull. "Its got to be. Anything else would be far too big of a coincident."

"It is very possible you're correct," Charles replies with a nod. "Though that would indicate we're dealing with someone, who apparently has an inexhaustible amount of patience, an amazingly detail oriented mind." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "It boggles the mind, the amount of timing and planning that must have gone into this ploy."

"Why now though?" Ororo questions. "There has to be some reason why he would choose now to act."

"It could be a reason known only to him, or herself," Xavier responds.

Jean looks at Scott, a soft comforting light in her eyes. "At least we know your father isn't a murderer," she says after a moment.

Scott sigh softly at the statement. He still didn't feel any desire to discus Hank Summers. So his father hadn't abandoned them, he had been stolen from them. That fact did nothing to dissipate more then twenty years of pent up rage and anger.

"What makes you say that?" Charles inquires as he locks eyes with Jean.

"Logan had been very adamant about the fact that nobody died in that alley," Jean responds then adds, "not recently anyway," a little defensively.

Xavier nods lightly looking around even though he didn't have to. "And just where has our erstwhile companion gotten himself?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt lands nearly soundlessly in one of New York's cleaner alleys. The early morning sun warming his flesh as he takes in the alley's landscape. Only a light layer of grime covers the concrete, brick, and pavement. Cautiously he approaches the heavy steel door. It had only been a few seconds since he heard metal scraping against metal, then a sharp slicing sound, a door swinging open then close, but no click from its closing. There's nothing in the alley that would explain what he had heard.

That hadn't been the only strangeness he has witnessed since beginning his chase. The man himself moves like the wind. Close to twenty miles, back and forth, zig zagging his way across, what seems like the entire city. Sometimes over it, sometimes under it. If Matt didn't know better he would think the man knew someone had been following him. Considering all the facts he has though that has to be close to impossible. At least he thinks it should be, but who knows.

He pulls the door open, an incredibly loud noise to his own ears, but barely audible to anyone else's. He's mildly surprised to find himself in the receiving area of a department store. Conveyer belts and boxes, clothes still in their plastic bags hanging from overhead conveyers. And there isn't a sound in the building.

Running his fingers along the door casing he finds the reason why the door hadn't clicked shut, the handle mechanism and deadbolt were cut clean through. He feels a chill run up his spine as he wonders what exactly could have cut through hardened steel that smoothly, like a razor sharp blade slicing butter. Entering the building he shoves his fear aside, the man that came in here just before him might have answers to his client's case. Answers that he is determined to have for himself.

Matt's fairly certain now that man knows he has been followed, and that he is very good at keeping himself hidden. Matt might not be able to hear him, his heartbeat or his breathing, but he could still smell him. Normally he didn't like to rely on his sense of smell when tracking somebody, but right now he didn't really see where he has a choice.

Suddenly he picks up quick, rapid movement as seven small objects coming hurtling at him from the left. He ignores them since none of them were going to come anywhere close to hitting him. All of his attention instead focuses on the man who had thrown them. A good six inches shorter then him, but possibly just as broad through the shoulders.

Then the first bottle hit's the concrete, shattering, it's contents spraying the area and Matt realizes his mistake. He hadn't thought about how the man would have known he was being followed. A man with senses as keen as his own would have no problem picking him up. He would also have a good idea how to effectively neutralize that person. Render their senses nearly useless. A second and third land not far off with similar results. The perfume's strong odors, mingling together, is nearly enough to make Matt lose his last meal -- however long ago that was.

Matt quickly jumps away from the overwhelming aromas even as the other four bottles of perfume shatter and flood the air with their own individual fragrances combining with the others to make something truly nauseous. Smothering his urge to vomit he easily locates his adversary. His footfalls, while extremely quiet for someone sprinting across a grated catwalk, are loud in Matt's ears.

Just as Matt takes off after him, he drops over the side of the catwalk, more then twenty-five feet to the floor below. Matt listens as a series of switches are flipped, suddenly motors come to life, conveyer belts begin moving. Matt stops covering his ears for a moment as he concentrates on blocking out the extra sensory sounds and zoom in on the man.

Looking up Matt braces for an attack that isn't coming. He had disappeared again, and this time he couldn't even isolate his aroma thanks to the perfumes sickening odor flooding the room. Two senses down and touch wasn't going to do him a whole lot of good. He had the feeling if he got that close to the man without spotting him it is going to be a relatively short and one-sided fight.

His head snaps up as a slight sound thunders in his ears, his radar homing in on the source and there he is. Crouching low on the conveyer belt overhead. As soon as his head moves a low guttural growl erupts from between Logan's lips and he launches himself at his pursuer.

Logan knew he had picked up a tail almost as soon as the red clad wonder began following him, but he figured a game of cat and mouse would be a relaxing way to end the evening. It hadn't taken him long to figure out his senses must be as acute as his own, maybe even better. Logan didn't really know, didn't really care all that much either.

The sharp rasping of steel sliding against steel fills the air as his claws spring from the housing in Logan's forearms emerging from between his knuckles. Matt dives out of the way only an instant before his query turned hunter hit's the ground. Spinning around, his cane springing into his hand. He reaches out hoping to catch Logan before he has a chance to recover.

Logan's claws however slice through the weapon with ease throwing Matt off slightly. He moves in sensing the opening. Matt recovers quickly himself, his foot lashing out, slamming into Logan's gut with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He flips upward, twisting in the air, his other foot slams into Logan's skull, only it's the lawyer that stifles a groan as it feels like he just kicked a steel I beam.

Logan reigns in his bloodlust, retracting his claws. He wants information not a corpse and in the middle of a fight its easy enough to get the second even without his unwanted assets.

Matt again quickly regains his bearings as he ignores the pain shooting up his leg. He launches a ferocious assault against his opponent. Most Logan manages to avoid, dodge, or block, but a few land clean.

A sharp blow to the throat, a punch that would have had any other man on the ground gasping for breath slips in. Instead of falling like Matt expects Logan's left hand grabs hold of Matt's right forearm and twist savagely as a low growl rumbles deep in his chest. Matt tries, but can't break the vice like grip. In less time then it takes to blink Logan latches onto Matt's throat with his right hand. Matt lashes out again, punching Logan as hard as he can in the chest to little effect aside from the throbbing in his hand.

Taking a different tack he slams his knee into Logan's right side. The next moment he feels his right leg taken out from under him as he's slammed to the unforgiving concrete floor. The force of the blow knocking the air from his lungs. Desperately he sucks in a lungful of oxygen as he manages to kick Logan in the left side of his head knocking him astride and rolling to his feet free of Logan's hold.

Logan shakes his head, a glare of mild annoyance flickering over his face. "I'm trying real hard not to kill you boy," he growls.

"Don't do me any favors," Matt mutters a moment before he launches his next attack.

Logan smiles as he slips to the right of the incoming punch. Then to the left of the next one as he throws a hard punch of his own that misses by a bare fraction of an inch.

Matt spins away from the hard knee driven towards his ribs throwing a wheel kick of his own that Logan ducks underneath. With remarkable muscle control he flips up and over, his heel catching Logan under the chin and knocking him back a step while he lands on his feet with grace and ease facing Logan.

"That tears it," Logan mumbles as his claws spring forth.

Matt dodges a wild slash then barely manages to avoid getting skewered by the uppercut from his other hand while connecting with a solid punch of his own. Then it's back to dodging again as Logan's claws slice through a conveyer belt behind him.

A quick left followed by a hard right to Logan's head barely even fazes him. Again Matt is forced to duck under a vicious swing. Slipping behind Logan, landing several punches to Logan's back. He then catches the spinning slash and flips him up and over attempting to take him to the ground.

Logan however manages to land on his feet back to back with Matt. In one continues movement Logan uses the momentum, his new found leverage, and an animalistic surge of adrenaline and strength to flip Matt over slamming him back into the concrete floor.

For an instant Matt feels the world drop away from him with the force of the impact. Like a drowning man desperately reaching for safety Matt struggles back to awareness. He feels the keen pressure of Logan's knuckles pressed into his chest right above his heart. He can also feel Logan's other hand against his right temple.

"Got anymore fancy moves boy?" Logan growls in a soft whisper.

"Give me a minute or two," Matt replies as he begins formulating a course of action.

Logan chuckles at that. Its not a sound Matt finds overly reassuring. "You've got balls kid. Now tell me why the hell you were following me before I chop them off and shove them down your throat."

"Where'd you get the idea…"

"The nose knows," Logan cuts him off.

The comment confirming Matt's suspicions. It means the man can identify him by scent alone. His senses might be on par with his own, maybe even superior. Its the first he's ever encountered someone like himself.

"Did a fair job of staying out of sight." Logan continues sounding as if he's deep in thought. "Which means you weren't using your eyes to keep tabs on me."

"Who are you?" Matt demands. He feels the pressure on his chest increase minutely.

"Just in case you don't know how this works. I ask the questions, you give the answers."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Katherine, Kitty to just about everyone that knows her, Pryde looks askew at the slightly older Jubilation Lee, or as nearly everybody calls her, Jubilee. Despite the fact that she had been here longer then Jubilee she didn't have the older girl's presence or personality. Her force of will. Still anybody could see that plan of action is a road leading straight to a quantifiable disaster.

"And how were you planning on us leaving the campus?" Theresa Rourke Cassidy, or Siryn as most people -- because of her power -- call her, questions as she sits down next to Kitty across from Jubilee. "surely you're not planning on trying to fool the Professor."

"Of course not," Jubilee replies as if the idea had never crossed her mind.

"Then how are you planning in getting us off campus?" Allison, Alli or just Al to nearly everyone at the school, Crestmere inquires.

Jubilee looks around at the three other girls. Allison is the oldest of them, Theresa the youngest, while Kitty got the best grades, but Jubilee is the drive behind the quartet. The engine that keeps them running.

"What I was planning was to ask Ms. Munroe if she could assign one of the older students to take us into the city. Once there it'll be easy to ditch them and do our own investigation. Maybe find the person that's responsible for screwing with people we the care about." Her response becoming more vehement at the end.

"How are we going to do that?" Theresa asks. "Even the X-Men haven't been to find a solid clue."

"I never said it would be easy," Jubilee replies flippantly. Then she becomes serious as she adds solemnly, "we take care of the people we care about. No matter the risk or consequences." Years of living on her own, with only a few friends she could truly depend on had taught her that.


	3. Chap 3: Ghost in the Ruins pt1

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Chapter Three: Ghost in the Ruins pt1

Harsh light flares as Logan strikes the match. In the semidarkness, Matt frowns at the pungent aroma that wafts up from the cigar as he lights it. In the back of his mind he wonders if the man called Wolverine can see the change of his facial expression in the darkness.

"That seems a little hard to believe," he finally says in response to the tale Wolverine finished a few minutes ago.

Logan shrugs, a subtle gesture Matt's radar picks up with ease. "Then don't believe it," he comments pulling a dark flannel shirt from its hanger. "Ain't no skin off my nose."

The problem is, Matt does believe him. His senses are so keen that they act like a natural lie detector, easily capable of picking up the smallest, most minute change in a person's body; respiration, perspiration, heart rate, and temperature. Aside from being a little evasive about their interest in the senator's death he had been completely honest.

"I know the attorney defending Hank Summers, the man accused of killing Senator Frank McCellum… Mathew Murdock. If you discovered anything…"

"McCellum wasn't killed there," Logan cuts in slipping the shirt on. "He'd been dead awhile before he was shot," he continues as he buttons the shirt up, "if he was ever alive."

Matt's frown broadens as Logan inhales deeply from his cigar. "What's that suppose to mean?"

Logan shakes his head muttering, "damned if I know." He pulls his cigar out of his mouth before he begins rummaging through another rack of clothing searching for a pair of jeans to replace his ruined pants. "Just gut instinct."

"Instinct?" Matt grumbles incredulously.

Logan shrugs at the word as it slips out of the masked crusader's mouth. "Instinct," he returns in a tone of voice that says that one word should explain everything.

Matt turns away rubbing at his temple. After a brief moment he turns back. "Your instincts, good as they might be, aren't going to help Murdock's client."

"I ain't got no sympathy for a man who cuts and runs on his wife and kids," Logan growls as he tears a pair of black jeans off the rack. Shoving his smoldering cigar back between his lips he nearly rips the tattered remains of his pants off.

"They're in New York," Matt responds. He didn't much care for the fact that Summers had left his wife and two teenage daughters to fend for themselves. That divorce was normal for today's society, he could accept, but not keeping in touch with his children.

That was nearly an unforgivable sin in his book.

But he was trying to make amends for his past. He had come back to America. Everything pointed to him traveling back to Los Angeles and presumably Sunnydale.

"If his two girls can forgive him what gives you the right…"

"I ain't got to change my view," Logan growls keeping a straight face. If this character was actually Summers father, then that meant he had a pair of sisters in New York somewhere. "Luxury I have of not giving rat's ass about the man." He wonders what one-eye's reaction will be to learning that.

"You don't cut anyone any breaks do you?"

Logan grunts sourly. "Life's never cut me a break."

- - - - - - -

Charles places the phone back in its cradle. His face was pale, a stark mask of worry bordering on fear. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself both physically and emotionally.

Staring at the phone he thanks fate he had been alone. It's doubtful any of his students, let alone his X-Men, would understand him receiving that phone call…

Especially considering its source.

He couldn't however discount the information just because of where it comes from.

Then again that was probably why the call came in when it did. With her abilities its highly doubtful she would contact him at an inappropriate time.

Like always her information had been disturbing. This time it revolved around Scott's family. One that he didn't even know he had until a few hours ago.

Justice for crimes against Royal blood. A sinister plot. The return of dead. The dead that live. The living dead. All lead to Apocalypse.

Sighing softly Charles Xavier maneuvers his chair with ease as he heads the door to his study. Nearing the door he presses a button and the door swings open for him.

There was far more to what was going on around them then someone simply framing Scott's father. It looks like his X-Men were going to have their work cut out for them on this one.

- - - - - - -

The sound of hard sole shoes striking tiled linoleum is buried underneath a sea of soft voices. At least they would have been soft if there weren't two dozen people talking all at once.

Buffy, leans back against the two tone wall as she takes in the lazy, yet slightly manic, hustle and bustle within the station house with a miniscule feeling of amazement. She never would have imagined that so many people would be arrested at this early of hour in the morning.

If she concentrated she would be able to listen in on every single conversation in her immediate vicinity without too much trouble. Only she wasn't interested in every conversation, and the one she did want to hear was taking place behind a close door on the far end of the floor.

All she has been able to hear so far are muffled voices, a phrase now and then. Some were relatively interesting, but most made little sense to her taken out of context as they were.

Sighing softly she closes her eyes and releases, fractionally anyway, the deep stress she's felt building inside her while she leans against the wall. She didn't want to be here, yet she had to. She had to see her father. Find out once and for all why he had just dropped out of her and Dawn's life.

Granted she hadn't really made that big of an effort to find him, but with him changing phone numbers and not leaving any forwarding address he made himself kind of hard to find.

Then there was that whole dieing and being resurrected thing she did a couple of summers ago. That had left her feeling vague. Out of sorts. Discombobulated.

She still did in a way. Only it was subdued now. Thanks in part to the fact that the First Evil seems to be taking a siesta after spending more then two years working hard to drive a wedge, not just between her and her friends, but her and herself.

Her suspicions had been confirmed after conversations with Willow, Xander, Dawn, Wood, Faith, Giles. While only Faith admits that the First had been inside her head, actively trying -- and succeeding -- in influencing her. The others all admitted to feeling unusual amounts of jealousy, anger, arrogance, pettiness, inadequacies, doubt, loathing, bigotry, and fear.

They all also admitted that within a few days after their last battle that everything had shifted to how they had felt in the weeks prior to learning the truth about Glory and Dawn. Like an oppressive weight had been lifted from their collective shoulders.

Everyone had been more then a little ashamed of the fact that they could be manipulated so easily. She doesn't blame any of them though. It would be kind of foolish if she did. The ultimate evil had wormed its way into each and everyone of them, herself included, and played each of them like a great conductor orchestrating intricately complex symphony.

All the doubts and recriminations, the anger, bitterness hadn't vanished, but had dulled considerably once the First Evil's plan had been thwarted. She wasn't fool enough to think the First had been defeated once and for all, not by them simply destroying an army of Turok-Hans and sealing one Hellmouth.

Other armies could be raised. Bigger armies. Armies so vast, so terrifying that they beggar her imagination.

Other Hellmouths could be opened. All the Hellmouths could be opened.

Especially considering the fact that the First might be another of the powers. One that, for whatever reason, thrives on manipulating mankind. Making sure that humanities darker qualities dominate their nature.

Several long talks with Angel, about what he had gone through over the last several years, culminating with Cordelia giving birth to Jasmine, an entity claiming to be one of the powers, brought her to that conclusion.

Comparing their recent history both Buffy and Angel had been able to see that the First and Jasmine had been gearing up for a major conflict with each other. That they had merely been the pawns moved about the board with never a thought for their wants and desires.

Buffy could tell Angel had held something back from her. She knew the man well enough to know when he was being defensively evasive. While she would dearly love to know exactly what Angel was hiding from her she had been too wiped out from her recent tryst with the First Evil to pursue the matter. If Angel ever felt he could confide in her, then she would be there for him, but she wasn't going to push the issue.

Dawn sits on the plain wooden bench swinging her feet back and forth lazily. On each pass her feet would scuff the floor. Twisting her head she glances up at her sister whose leaning back against the wall with closed eyes.

A small smile slips across the young girl's lips. She knows her sister as well as anybody, and while Buffy might be angry with their father she will still hear him out. Buffy needs to hear him out.

Just like Dawn knows that Buffy will forgive him. Eventually. That's just Buffy's way. Seldom does she stay mad at someone for longer then it takes her to turn around. Of course that didn't mean she was going to forgive him right away. Because Buffy could hold a grudge.

While she herself is as concerned as Buffy with why her father disappeared from their life as abruptly, as completely as he had. She was simply happy that he was back. Everything else could be sorted out later.

Isabel sits down next to Dawn on the bench letting out a relieved sigh. "Are you okay," the young brunette asks shifting slightly to offer the pregnant woman assistance.

"I'm fine," Isabel answers. "Thank you." Her smile warms the entire room. Dawn can feel her mood lighten considerably. "It won't be much longer. It just seems that the closer it comes the further there is to go."

Dawn can't help but smile at the comment. She had taken an instant liking to Isabel. There was just something about her father's new wife that she finds compelling, tranquil. Serene.

For the first time since the death of her mother Dawn feels as if she has found a maternal figure. She knew that Isabel shouldn't, couldn't be a replacement for her mother, but she felt the woman could be a friend.

It was a little strange since Isabel was about Buffy's age. If anybody should be friends with her Dawn thought it would be Buffy, but her sister had been oddly standoffish.

Dawn did a hasty reassessment. Then remembered that it was Buffy she was assessing and realized that for her sister it wasn't that surprising. Buffy had a hard time accepting new people into her life.

"You sure you should be here?" Buffy asks the concern in her voice echoed in her eyes. "Considering," she adds with meaning as her eyes travel down to Isabel's large stomach.

Isabel smiles thinly at Buffy. "Where else should I be?"

For a moment Dawn thinks that sparks are going to flash between them as they match stares with each other. Before anything can come of it though Lt. Van Buren suddenly appears. Suddenly to Dawn perhaps. Buffy had been aware of the woman's approach for sometime.

"Mrs. Summers," the Lieutenant begins looking at Isabel. Then with a glance at Buffy and Dawn she adds, "Ladies. If you'll follow me."

Isabel rises awkwardly to her feet. As she does Buffy asks, "any new developments?" In a far too innocent voice.

Van Buren spears Buffy with hard eye stare while keeping the rest of her face as neutral as possible. The, young woman stares right back, her hazel eyes hard enough to drive nails. There was a maturity to the girl that went beyond her years.

"We have a few leads we're following up on," she answers defensively. Not use to being put this off balance by someone so young.

Buffy smiles that too sweet smile of hers. "Like the fact the Senator McCellum was already dead when he was shot in the alley?" Buffy inquires making sure not to mention it was her father that did the shooting.

Van Buren manages to maintain her equilibrium even though she wants to do nothing more then grab hold of the petites blonde and throttle her until she gives up whoever it was that gave her that information. Despite that achievement Anita has the distinct feeling the California beauty knows the effect her question had. She can see it in her eyes. Her smirking hazel eyes.

"The D.A. will be informing your father's attorney of everything the police uncover," Van Buren replies stiffly.

Buffy nods her head slightly. "That's good to know," she murmurs in a tone that clearly reveals her southern California valley girl origins. "Because hanging round a police station trying to eavesdrop on everyone's conversation would put a major crimp on my Fifth Avenue shopping." To put the finishing touches on her performance she absent mindedly begins twirling the ends of her dyed, sun kissed blonde hair around the tip of her finger.

Once again Anita is thrown by the sudden change in demeanor. She's more then positive that this was an act, a façade to do exactly what she was doing. Keep her off balance. "This way," she finally says.

The three woman fall in line behind her. Dawn quickly grabs Buffy's arm. Her urgent whisper is as sharp as it harsh. "Are you deliberately trying to piss her off?"

Buffy glances up slightly at her younger sister. "Was it that easy to figure out?" She inquires rhetorically.

"Why?"

Buffy's expression softens fractionally as she sighs shifting her gaze to the back of Van Buren's head. "You didn't hear them, her worst of all. Sounding like he's guilty… Already convicted." Her voice had taken on an edge.

Dawn looks blank for a moment as she takes in Buffy's statement. The emotion in her voice. "I thought you didn't care. That you're angry…"'

"Of course I'm angry," Buffy cuts her off. "He cut out on us when we needed him most." The depth of emotion that radiates in her voice is like a physical, palpable force. "No matter what, he's still our father. Always will be. I just…" She stops shaking her head slightly. "He just needs to sweat a little."

Ahead of them Isabel smiles faintly as she hears Buffy's comment. Dawn had been easy to feel out. She so wanted to forgive her father.

Buffy on the other hand was like a blank slate. The girl had a way of keeping her emotions closed off, of not letting people in or letting anything she feels on the inside show on the outside.

It was good to hear that she was also planning on giving Hank a second chance. It was all he really wanted now. Making things up to his children. All of his children.

- - - - - - -

Harsh sunlight glares down upon the hard, glistening, glaring city of concrete, glass, and steel. People go about their business, hustling and bustling this way and that with nary a care for their fellow residents of New York. Residents that for the most part feel that they have seen, that they've gone through just about everything, that there just aren't any surprises left for them anymore.

For the most part, they're right. They have seen just about everything there is to see.

They're jaded.

They take for granted the wondrous sights filling their city. Buildings made of glass and steel that reach for the sun. Roadways that stretch far as the eye can see. Cars, vans, trucks, in a myriad shapes, sizes, and colors crawl along the black top.

Sights that may appear common place to the modern man. To someone more then a century out of place, it feels as if he has followed the rabbit down the hole.

William frantically spins, his crystal blue eyes wide as saucers, in a tight circle on the bustling New York city side walk. His head tilted back as he tries to take in everything at once.

And fails.

Buildings hundreds of times higher then anything he has ever seen before. Made from materials the likes of which he has never seen. Sheets of black glass larger then a buggy or carriage, smooth stone with out any visible seam.

His breath comes in short, ragged pants. His heart beats like a trip hammer as swarms of people, dressed in strange clothes -- if what they're wearing can honestly be called clothes -- surge pass him, buffeting him from all sides. Hundreds, if not thousands of people. Short people, tall people, thin people, rotund people, stout people. Polite people, rude people, uncaring, indifferent people that gaze at him with varying degrees of apathy, bewilderment, and curiosity. People with short hair, long hair, no hair. People with exposed midriffs, legs bare almost to their hips. Body piercings from navel to nose, lip, eyebrow, and ears along with tattoos covering nearly every inch of flesh visible.

A cacophony of noise assaults him like a physical force. Hammering into him. For a man use to the subtle, quiet environment of the late nineteenth century, the sudden increase in the decibel level is quite literally maddening. It can make a man feel like there are a thousand extra people living inside his skull.

"Watch it…" A bump to the shoulder turns him.

Plastering his hands over his ears he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to keep the pounding, hammering, pulsing, throbbing litany of impossibilities from touching him.

"Out of the way…" A hard shove to the back causes him to stumble forward.

"She killed me," he mumbles remembering the London pick pocket that had followed him into the stables. He hadn't really thought of her as a pick pocket at the time, being far too beautiful and ravishing. Carrying herself with a supremely elegant carriage that named her a lady quicker, more instantly then a herald shouting from the rooftops.

"Move it…" Another shove sends him spinning away towards the curb.

At least he had thought so at the time. But he can also recall there was a distinctly predatory light in her eyes. "Bloody chit killed me," he says again with more vehemence as he stumbles off the curb. He collides with a car, flips over the hood, somehow manages to land on his feet.

A horn blares, a loud ear splitting screech fills the air. Williams eyes snap open. They go wide as the white and blue horseless buggy, with the strange multi-colored talisman attached to its roof, barrels at him. With no time to avoid, what he assumes is going to be a decidedly excruciating collision, he slams his eyes shut again, and braces himself.

A few cry out. Shout and screams rise up out of the onlookers, but are drowned out as the wheels lock up.

The police cruiser hits him head on at more then thirty-five miles an hour. The front grills, steel, plastic, and glass crumples around William as he doesn't move. The rear of the car bolts upward by its sudden stop before dropping back to the ground, bouncing several times.

For a brief moment silence reigns as everyone takes in the scene in front of them. The crumpled police car. The lean man with soulful, insightful, crystal blue eyes and curly light brown, nearly dirty blonde hair. A few locks falling in front of his eyes.

Eyes that William just now opens. Tiny little slits, bare microscopic openings that allow him to see the scene before him. On each side of the car, almost simultaneously a door opens and a uniformed officers stumbles, nearly fall, as they clamor to get out the demolished cruiser.

Suspecting that there is more of this drama to be played out in the street the crowd of mainly disinterested onlookers mill about waiting for everything to unfold.

William gingerly disentangles himself from the mangled metal. "Bobbies," he murmurs to himself as they begin picking themselves up off the pavement. "Why are there bobbies in the afterlife?" He asks in confusion.

Turning to the crowd he instinctively reaches up to push his glasses back up only to discover he isn't wearing any. For a moment he frowns, then a hesitant smile lifts the right corner of his mouth. The answer is so obvious that he is lucky it didn't knock him over when it slapped him upside his head. Dieing, being in the here after, the afterlife, possibly heaven, would be an instant curative to mundane congenital defects.

Satisfied with his reasoning he clears his throat softly in an attempt to catch someone's attention. Somewhere in the back of the crowd he hears, "mutant," hissed disdainfully, angrily.

Absently he wonders what someone could mean by it. It's nearly impossible for him to know given the fact that there isn't any context for him to work with. Just a single word with no references. The word itself implies an aberration from what is normal.

Clearing his throat again he mumbles, "excuse me," timidly. His upper class, refined London accent clear.

"Freak!" A firmer, more resolute voice shouts from the back. A series of angry rumblings follow the out cry.

He turns slightly to look out at the gathered crowd. "I beg you pardon?" He questions skeptically feeling himself become flustered.

"See what he did?"

"Tried to kill those cops."

"Bet you he's one of them Muties tried to kill us all."

"What?" He blurts out. "I haven't… I've never… I would never…" Never in his life had he ever wanted to hurt anybody. Let alone kill.

"Take it easy son," the larger of the two cops orders as he comes up behind William.

"I'm not…"

"Just calm down," the other says coming up on his other side. "Nobody here wants to hurt you," he remarks earnestly even as he draws his gun.

William takes a step back pointing at the crowd. "Tell that to them," he stammers.

"Get down on your knees, lace your fingers behind your head."

He shifts his focus towards the officer. "Not bloody likely you stupid twit," he spits out in a rare moment of anger. It didn't take a genius to figure out that position would make him a sitting target for the angry mob.

A few quick steps brings him within range of William. His left hand grabs his shoulder trying to force the young, lean man to his knees. "I said on you knees."

"I said no," William returns as he turns giving the cop a slight shove. Or what he thought of as a slight shove. The six foot three, two hundred and twenty pound cop sails through the air. More then a dozen feet with one little push.

"Hell," he whispers in wonder.

All it takes is one shout, one lit match dropped in the truck load of gunpowder he happened to be standing on, to set off an explosion. A shout like, "get him!" Yelled from a dozen different throats at once.

"I must be in hell," William mumbles softly as the crowd surges forward. "Ahh!" He screams leaping onto the roof of the police cruiser with one easy jump that startles him.

The shouts, along with the mob follows him up the car. "Why am I in hell?"" He murmurs shoving a young man from the roof. "I always did what was right and proper." A swift spinning kick sends a woman sprawling to the pavement. A small frown creases his lips as he remembers the last moments of his life. "I let that London trollop have her wicked way with me and now I'm going to spend the rest of eternity in hell," he cries out even though he can't remember a single detail. He blocks a punch then returns the gesture knocking a hard eye, gray hair thirty year old man over the hood of the police car.

Someone grabs him by his ankles and pulls his feet out from under him. He slams down onto the roof, shattering the colored plastic as he lands hard. William quickly kicks out his feet cracking into a man's face knocking him back.

With a quick little twist and flip William lands back on his feet. A smile slipping over his lips at his unexpected agility. Never before in his life has he ever been capable of a feat like the one he just pulled._ Being dead isn't that bad._ He muses silently.

"Aaahh!" A lean, long limb man shouts running up the hood.

William spins grabbing hold of the attacker as he continues to whirl hurling the man back into the crowd knocking a handful of those gathered around to the ground. He stops as the mob seems to take a moment to regroup. With an unusual feeling of bravado he turns in a cocky, arrogant circle making sure he gets a good look at everyone. "Whether for a penny or pound matters not a wit to me at all for I'll trounce you all day long."

A shot rings out loud and clear. The bullet crosses the space between the gun it was fired from and William in a fraction of a heartbeat. "Ow!" William shouts as the bullet slams into his shoulder spinning him around, knocking him off the roof into the mob. "That bloody hurt!"

Instantly they fall on him, like a pack of starving wolves. He quickly starts swatting them away. A punch here, a kick there and they begin falling away from him.

__

This isn't so bad, the thought flouts through his mind. _Being dead, being in hell._ He tosses four more of the mob away then springs to his feet. _Stronger, faster. Even being shot is nothing more then an annoyance._ A swift spin and flip sends another man sailing away, this time over the roof of the police car. _I've never felt so alive._

A red and blue streak sweeps down snatching the man from the air before the passing truck turns him into a smear.

__

Everything is so sharp, so clear. He punches out striking another man in the chest -- beginning to enjoy, to revel, in his new found skills and abilities -- sending him flying towards a plate glass window.

A thick strand of webbing spreads over the man's backside. Like a ball that has reached the end of it's elastic string he springs back as if shot out of gun. His bottom hit's the ground hard and skids for several feet before coming to a stop.

As lightly as a snow flake falling to the ground Peter lands, in a crouch, on the roof of the police cruiser. He had seen everything except for the very beginning. The car accident that precipitated the melee, but an educated guess tells him all he needs to know. While the crowd, mob really, has no cause to unleash it's anger and confusion on one, more then likely, blameless mutant for the events that transpired a few weeks ago. "Hey Spanky," he calls out loudly.

The crowd takes a startled step back at Spider-Man's sudden appearance. William spins around. "Aaahh!" He screams jumping back at the sight of red and blue human shaped creature, with large, oddly shaped, reflective eyes. His sudden, explosive move propels him through the throng of people he had just been fighting.

Peter frowns under his mask. While it isn't the first time people have had similar reactions upon seeing him, it is the first time he has seen the stark, abject terror in somebody's eyes while they are looking at him. As if he is seeing something so far from his realm of experience as to be horrifying. This however is the first time he has heard the unbridled terror from someone. Like they're looking at some inhuman monster.

William continues to stare up at the beast that talks like a man as he crawls backwards on his hands and feet. He realizes he should have expected that their would be things in hell not quite human. Creatures meant to enforce whatever laws there are in hell. If there are any.

Suddenly an intense wave of embarrassment, of self conscience guilt for being on his backside in front of this low creature washes over him.

No matter what. Dead or alive. In heaven, hell, or some wretched in between.

He is still an Essex.

Never in his life has he ever let himself be intimidated by anyone, anything, any situation. Never has he backed down from any challenge. His line is as old as any in Great Britain. He even has a legitimate claim to the crown. It would take the death of more then two hundred distant relatives, in a very specific order, to put him on the throne, but it could be accomplished if he was so inclined.

Deftly, without ever taking his eyes off the red and blue fleshed creature, he springs back to his feet. He dusts himself off, giving himself a few half hearted pats as he maintains, eye contact, or what he thought was eye contact. "I don't know if you can understand simple English foul beast, but I feel it's only fair that I give you proper warning." Lifting his hands he holds them out in front of him. "I have an extensive amount of experience in the genteel art of pugilism…"

"Gazunhiet," Peter comments needing to break up the incessant rambling.

William sighs in disappointment. "I knew it was too much to hope for. That a semblance of a man such as yourself would be capable of speaking a civilized language."

"Okay Prince Chucky," Peter starts. The annoyance he feels evident in his voice. The man is fast, agile, and strong, has a mouth on him that just won't stop. In his experience, never a good combination. "Just because we Americans…"

"Americans," William murmurs in astonishment.

"…don't speak the queen's proper," he continues in an obviously fake British accent, "doesn't mean you can go around insulting us, acting all snobbish and superior."

William's frown broadens as he takes in what the strange -- he has to assume -- American just said. _America I'm not dead? This isn't hell?_ His eyes scan the buildings, the cars, the people, with a slight squint. _At least I think it isn't, but it looks so different from photo's I've seen._

First order of business though is getting away from this mob before somebody winds up seriously injured. It's a miracle that nobody has so far. It's doubtful that I'll be able to convince the British Motor Mouth to come along quietly, or that the crowd will let him go.

Just means I'm going to have to do this the hard way

Peter fires off a pair of web lines, one latches onto William's shoulder, the other to his opposite knee. William looks down completely surprised by the webbing linking him to the American. Absently he wonders if it's a natural part of his anatomy or something created artificially. _Nathaniel would find this quandary…_ "Ah!"

His thoughts end abruptly. He screams as Peter yanks the web lines hurling him high into the air. Instinctively, as he sails through the air, William twist and turns like a world class gymnast. Sticking his hand out he attempts to grab hold of anything that will break his unwanted flight. He grabs hold of a sign post. Swinging around he seems to defy gravity, almost hanging upside down, in the air before finally dropping to the ground.

William looks up in shock never before would he have been able to accomplishing anything like what he just did before in his life. He knows something is seriously wrong, has all along, but when he thought he was dead and he was simply in hell it didn't matter. Now though, finding out that he is alive, that this is America, that somehow he's been transported -- in the blink of an eye -- to this far off land has him shaken to his core.

Peter lands on top of the sign post completely unfazed by the superhuman display. Since gaining his own powers, taking up the life he has, he has seen so much that very little surprises him anymore. Attaching a web line to the arm of the sign post. William shoots his gaze upwards at the soft sound from above. "Why don't we take this someplace a little more private?"

With that Peter swings down, grabs hold of William, and allows his momentum to rocket him back into the air. In rapid succession he shoots out several web lines; each one propelling them farther, faster, higher.

The entire time, William screams.


	4. Chap 3: Ghost in the Ruins pt2

Author's note: I hadn't seen the Spider-Man 2 Movie when I originally wrote this chapter. After seeing it I tried to incorperate some elements of the movie into the story without destabilizing its integrity. Hopefully I was able to accomplish this. The story takes place a few months prior to the Spider-Man 2 movie and with what I have planned lend itself to becoming an AU. I've talked enough. Enjoy the chapter.

Bastille Kain

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_Chapter 3: Ghost in the Ruins pt2_

Peter had never, in his life, been so glad he had accepted the cell phone Harry had given him a few weeks ago. At first he wasn't going to, citing any number of reasons why he couldn't from the fact it was to expensive to he wouldn't feel comfortable accepting what would basically be a never ending gift.

Only Harry had cut him off at the pass. The points he made were valid, well thought out, and reasonably presented. Especially about in today's fast paced world, with a job like his, and the hectic schedule he maintained it would allow people: his boss, friends, teachers, classmates, Aunt May to get a hold of him no matter what he was doing. In case of crisis or emergency.

That was one quality Harry had inherited from his father. The ability to talk people into almost anything. At least if he felt strongly enough about something.

Like the man hunt he kept up after Spider-Man.

If it wasn't so heart wrenchingly painful, that Harry Osborn was Peter Parker's best friend and Spider-Man's staunchest nemesis, and the fact that both were the same person, it would almost be side splittingly funny.

Although in recent months Harry has been starting to unleash his anger on Peter because he has continued to take, and sell, photos of Spider-Man to the Daily Bugle. To Harry that meant Peter had to have inside information on who Spider-Man was and wasn't divulging it simply so he could make a living.

It had gotten so bad that at one point Harry had offered him a million dollars for everything he knew about Spider-Man. Considering how he was living now, barely scraping by, it had been a very tempting offer.

It's a fact of his young, and extremely complex life that Peter doesn't like to think about. If not for a promise to a dead man, to keep his son ignorant of the fact he was a cold blooded, psychotic murderer, his life would be so much, maybe not better or simpler, but somehow less complicated right now.

Well maybe not right now, as in this exact moment -- pacing diagonally up the side of a building, one arm folded across his chest, other hand pressing the open, ringing cell phone to the side of his face -- right now, but in more of generalized -- life is pretty damn good -- sort of way.

The wind blowing through the vast canyons created by the massive sky scrapers is incredible, relentless. If not for the bite of a genetically engineered spider he doubts if he would be able to stand against it. Of course if wasn't for that self same spider bite he wouldn't be casually strolling along the side of the building in the first place.

With a quick look over his left shoulder Peter easily spots his prisoner. A young man, only a little taller then him, stands at perfect ease on the narrow ledge.

That all on its own was enough to peak Peter's curiosity. Very few people would be able to maintain their composure at this altitude. After only a few, brief moments of near panic William seemed to find his balance, center and there after took to the environment like a fish would take to water.

If that wasn't enough to alert Peter that something wasn't quite right with him then his attire, his manner of dress, style would put him over the top. A brown and tan plaid tweed suit, white button down shirt, an old fashion bow tie, black dress shoes, white socks. His dark, sandy brown hair had a foppish look to it with the back tied off with a piece of black satin cord.

"Hello," he called out loudly. Almost having to shout to be heard through his mask and over the howling wind.

"Hello," a young indistinct voice answered then silence filled the air.

Peter inhaled deeply hoping he wasn't making a big mistake. He hadn't remembered the precise name of school Jean had told him yesterday, but he thought he was close when he gave information the name to get the number. Now he wasn't so sure.

"Hang on a moment Peter. I'll get Jean for you."

And then the wispy child's voice is gone leaving Peter in a state of shock. _At least now I know I've got the right place. Unless Ma Bell connected me with the psychic net work._

After a brief moment he hears the phone pick up. "I'm sorry about that. Ray can be a little disconcerting at times."

"I'll say he can," Peter muttered loudly.

"She," Jean returned.

"What?" Peter mumbled.

"Her name's Rachel. Everyone just calls her Ray," Jean replied. "But I'm sure you didn't call to discuss our current student body… So what can I help you with."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, then closed it wondering if Jean can read his mind from over the phone like Rachel could. Jean's soft sigh answered that question for him. "I came across this young man early this morning that could probably use your help."

There was another pause on the other end of the phone before Jean asked, "what makes you say that?" He can hear genuine concern lacing her voice, as well as a trace of wariness.

He can't really blame her. It has been less then a day since she made her offer and already he's calling. With how mutant hysteria has gripped the country he doesn't hold it against her for being overly cautious.

"Well, there's a police cruiser on Madison Ave that'll never park in front of another donut shop. Besides only a mutant would dare go outside wearing what he has on."

"So says the man who swings through the city wearing red and blue tights." Came her light response. Then more seriously she asked, "was he in some type of altercation with the police?"

"More of a misunderstanding then an actual altercation," Peter replied loosely. "Look, I don't think the kids all right in the head. Or maybe he just stepped out of a different century."

"We're going to be in the city in a couple of hours. Can you get him to the Court building at…"

- - - - - - -

Hank looks up anxiously as the cell door clicked open. He knew he was suppose to be arraigned today, but that wasn't until later this afternoon. That left either cops or lawyers, or cops and lawyers, wanting to take another run at him.

What burst through the door, rudely shoving her way past the Lieutenant, was about the very last thing he expected to see. "Dawn," he murmured softly barely recognizing the tall, willowy, brown haired young woman who bounds across the room to wrap her arms around him in a tight, crushing embrace.

"I missed you so much," Dawn whispered as she squeezed for all she was worth.

Hank doesn't say anything. Instead simply holds on to his youngest child as if there were no tomorrow.

Van Buren clears her throat with a loud hurumph, as Hank and Dawn break their fierce hug. Before anyone can say anything though she remarked, "I'm going to give you guys a little privacy to get reacquainted. There'll be an officer right outside for when you're ready to leave." With that she turned on her heels and exited the room with one swift move pulling the door to behind her.

Away from the tiny blonde with those deep, penetrating -- I know your deepest, darkest secret -- emerald green eyes. The girl had a thousand mile stare that was downright unsettling when it was focused on you.

"Let me get a good look at you," he murmured with some amazement holding Dawn out at arms length by her shoulders. Again he feels that deep stab of guilt as he takes her in. She had grown into such a beautiful young woman in the last four yours. "You've grown so much I almost didn't recognize you."

A sarcastic, bitter sounding snort fills the small, barren room. "No one's fault for that but your own," Buffy remarked snidely unable to keep the anger that blazed in her core from spilling out into her words.

Hank's gaze shifts to his older daughter Buffy. He had seen her when she first entered, but had thought it best to let her make the first move. And she had, tossing down the ethereal gauntlet at his feet. He was glad it was ethereal and that it was at his feet considering the murderess gleam in her eyes.

She had changed so much since he had last seen her. He had been able to tell that instantly despite the fact she was remarkably unchanged physically. Her metamorphosis had occurred internally. There was a hard, bitterness in her eyes. Eyes that use to shine with laughter and sunshine.

Her posture was completely offensive, indicting that she was going to lash out first. A get them before they can get you mentality. Or perhaps more likely, a hurt the person who hurt you before they can hurt you again attitude.

"Buffy," he began solemnly. "It's good to see you."

"Funny," she whispered. "Especially coming from someone that hasn't made an attempt to see me in five years." Her voice was an angry grumble that can be felt clearly by everyone in the room. Possibly the entire building.

"Buffy!" Dawn snapped, a hard edge of warning tinting her voice. "You said you were going to give him a chance to explain before jumping down his throat."

The tiny blonde frowned recalling the conversation she had with Dawn just a few short minutes ago. "Fine," Buffy growled lowly crossing her arms over her chest. "Go ahead and explain to us just where the hell you've been for the last five years."

Hank glanced from one daughter the other, but each wore a nearly identical expression. The moment he had been dreading was finally here. The moment when he told his two daughters about his two other children. Two brothers, Scott and Alex. Two children he hadn't even remembered until a few years ago.

What if they didn't believe him. It wasn't as if he had any proof that they existed. Even his own memories were faulty. Filled with enough holes and gaps to put a cheese grater to shame.

They had failed him at every turn. Leaving him a broken shell of a man that didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

How could he expect anybody else to believe something he couldn't prove, but knew -- most of the time -- was true beyond any doubts. There was still a vast difference between knowing and proving.

He inhaled tightly. "It's not going to be easy… To hear or believe."

"Why don't you just tell us?" Buffy suggested impatiently.

Hank nodded more then a little annoyed at his eldest daughter's belligerent tone. With a light shrug he started off. "Nine years ago… More or less, I started having these dreams. More like altered memories. I should probably start at the beginning."

He took another deep breath slumping down into his chair weakly. After a moment he looked back up at his daughters. "I was married once before. Years before I met Joyce. I had two sons, Alex was three and a half years younger then Scott, a new born actually."

Dawn felt as if she had just been kicked in the head. Her eyes wide as tin cups as she sat down heavily. Barely managing to reach the chair as her legs turned to jelly. She stammered softly, but wasn't able to form a complete thought, much less an articulate sentence.

"You never… How come mom never told us? Why didn't you tell us?" Buffy demands of her father. Her voice little more then a feral growl. Unlike her younger sister she was still able to function despite the deep sense of betrayal she felt thudding through her head.

Hank exhaled shallowly before taking another deep breath, his eyes shifting from Buffy to Dawn and back again. "She didn't… We didn't know."

"How couldn't you know?" Dawn burst out. The anger clear in her voice as her nails dug into her palms.

"I just…" Hank started giving his head a miserable shake. "…didn't remember them," he finished weakly.

"You didn't remember them!" Dawn screamed coming out of her chair.

Buffy places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, easily, gently forcing the younger girl back into the chair she had been sitting in. Her intense green eyes are tinted with anger and loathing, but also curiosity as they bore into her father.

She can sense that there was something deeper at play here. Some puzzle that needed to be solved. That the puzzle just happened to involve her family simply made her that much more determined to solve it. To get to the truth no matter what that truth was.

"What do you mean?" She asked, a firm note of command compelling him to answer.

"It's as if that section of my life just doesn't exist. I remember different things. Jobs, city, friends." He answered in a voice that is nothing more then a hoarse whisper.

"And then?" Buffy prods looking for more details. "You said you started having dreams."

Hank looked up at his daughter intently wondering what had happened to his little girl. The girl she use to be. Her eyes seemed more then capable of dragging the story out of him even if he didn't utter another sound.

"They started at night," he started hesitantly, "that's why I call them dreams. It didn't take them long before they started happening in broad daylight. These memory flashes. Little things at first, easy enough to shrug off, to discount as a fantasy. Within a couple of months though they weren't just flashes anymore, but rather full blown memories with sounds and smells and all the other physical sensations. Each one as real as what had always been there. Two different memories for the same day."

"The second set of this other family?" Buffy coaxed gently.

He nods his answer then says, "as if that wasn't bad enough other memories began emerging contradicting each other." Taking another deep breath Hank tries to calm himself before continuing. "In the first set of memories they all died in a fire. Burnt beyond recognition. In the second, I just left. Walked out. But I can remember going to their funerals. Feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. The heart wrenching pain of losing everything.

"I was consumed with finding out the truth. Running down every lead, every scrap of out of date information that I came across," he shakes his head angrily. "It got to the point where nothing else mattered."

Dropping his head to the table he laced his fingers together over the back of his head. "I don't understand how any of it is possible…" His voice was a savage growl that was muted somewhat by him speaking into the metal surface.

Dawn and Buffy share a quick meaningful look with each other. Both know of numerous ways to convincingly and permanently alter someone's memories. Very few actually ever live up to their hype.

"…how could I have three completely different sets of memories that I know are real?"

"Magic," Buffy murmured softly.

"The powers," Dawn added after a moment.

Hank lifted his head from the table top, his gaze swept back and forth between his two girls with no idea what they were talking about.

"Anybody that thinks they can use you for their own ends…" Buffy leaves the statement hanging there. Her eyes practically boring holes through the concrete wall with the intensity of her gaze.

"What are you talking about?"

Hank's question comes just as Buffy's head swivels around toward the door. She could hear Isobel coming down the hall along with a second person. There was a distinctive tapping along the floor. Buffy could only assume that was her father's blind attorney.

"We have a lot to talk about," Buffy said turning her head back to face her father. "When we have more time."

- - - - -

Logan sat astride the Harley Davidson he borrowed earlier this morning. He had been planning on returning it, but the machine was such a beauty, pure and simplistic with no frills, that he had fallen in love with it. He was still going to return it, it was just going to take a little longer.

He gazed up at the lush, sprawling estate in front of him. It had been little more then thirteen years since the last time he was here. At the time he had thought he was going home with one of the young maids that worked and lived here.

It was only in the last few days that he learnt the truth of the matter. Not that it would have made any difference to him at the time. It was what it was.

A one night stand. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Knowing who she was wouldn't have changed anything.

Even now the only reason Logan was here was because he was hoping he could use her family's underworld connections to dredge up some kind of lead, any sort of scrape, that he could use to help Scott out.

The plan was a long shot to be sure, but he didn't have anything to lose by playing it. Plus he was fairly sure this was one avenue of investigation Xavier wasn't going to be treading down.

Chuck might have friends all over the world, reaching the highest levels of government out there, but Logan doubts that his circle of friends, no matter how wide, would extend here.

He wouldn't necessarily bet against it, but it would definitely be a long shot.

Now all he had to do was find a way inside. It wasn't like he was expecting Elektra to remember him after thirteen years. Attempting to gain entry to the house without the owners permission would be a daunting task to say the least.

Perhaps even an impossible one.

While normally he would love the high stake gamble, today it was simply a risk he couldn't take. Not this time. Not with everything that is at stake.

With a simple, deft move Logan maneuvers the kick start out and down. The Harley roars to life like thunder rolling through a narrow canyon.

After a negligent check of the traffic coming up and dawn the four lane road he twist the throttle. The nearly thousand pound machine rumbled across the road with all the haste of a beer crossing a brook.

Pulling up in front of the mammoth size steel gate Logan stopped where the camera has a clear view of him. He reached out, tapping the buzzer several times before leaning back lazily.

"Hello," a clearly female voice responded, distorted slightly by the speaker and miles of underground wiring. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to see the lady of the house, Elektra Sanchez," he announced in a no nonsense tone of voice.

A short pause followed. An electric click and then, "who may I ask is calling?"

"Logan."

- - - - -

Xamil hadn't believed her own ears when she heard the name of the man at the front gate.

Logan, just Logan. No last name.

Now Xamil knew that there had to be thousands, if not millions, of men with that name, and anyone of them could be at the gate right now. She stands at the front door watching the figure on the motorcycle cruise up the driveway.

She has known Elektra since they were both little girls. The two looked so much alike that everybody who saw them together thought they were twins. Nobody had been able to tell them apart.

The only exception to that had been Elektra's father. He always knew who was who no matter how they tried to fool him. From switching their clothes to wearing identical outfits. He just always knew.

They had done everything together, or nearly so. From the schools they attended to the vacations they took.

When she went on a shopping spree at the local mall Elektra was by her side buying out the latest fashions and checking out the hot guys. When Mr. Sanchez sent Elektra to a new martial arts instructor she was right beside her being given the same training.

Elektra had always been the better fighter between them, but she once admitted to Xamil that if she hadn't been with her then she might have gone insane from all the constant training, the pressure to be the best, and having to live up to her father's towering expectations.

That when they were together she just felt like an average ordinary girl.

Like with most things in their lives Xamil was there when Elektra went through her semi-rebellious phase when she was in her late teens. A phase that ended abruptly after one drunken night.

A drunken night with a man named Logan, just Logan. No last name.

Xamil knew what Logan looked like despite the fact she had never seen the man. Elektra had described him in vivid detail after their one night together and Xamil had made several sketches of the man under her best friend's direction.

Watching the man as he climbed off the back of the Harley Davidson her eyes narrow with surprise. There were minor changes, a hair difference if that, but otherwise he could have stepped off those thirteen year old drawings.

It was eerie.

It was impossible is what it was.

She noticed that as he looked at her, his eyes crinkle speculatively. His nostrils flare as he continued to gaze at her. Then with an indifferent shrug he strode up the colonnade walk to the set of wide stairs that Xamil stands upon.

"Where's Elektra," Logan started without preamble before pausing. He had never considered that Elektra didn't know what it was that her father did for a living. There was every chance that she didn't have the faintest idea of daddy's business practice. "Or whatever mook old man Sanchez left in charge."

Xamil doesn't let the startlement she felt over his observation show on her face. Instead she responds as she would have since the night Elektra went after her father's killer. The last night she had talked to anybody. The last night she had walked or even moved of her own violation. The night she was left on a rooftop in a pool of her own blood, a hair's breadth away from death.

"What can I do for you?" Xamil asks.

"Darling," he starts off with a light smirk. "You might be her exact double, right down to that little golden dragon tattooed on…"

Xamil colors slightly remembering when they had gotten the pair of matching tattoos. Again there was that knowing smirk as his gaze bored into her. As if he knew something she didn't. "I don't think we need to go there."

"Probably not," Logan agreed. After a brief pause he added, "now why don't you answer my question and I can be on my way."

Xamil sighed softly then replied. "What can I do for you?"

Logan frowns. Even after thirteen years her distinctive fragrance was fresh in his mind. He could smell Elektra on the woman in front him as if she had just been in the same room. Sniffing the air he picked up the faint trace of antiseptics. Like a hospital. "What happened?" He growled with more then just an edge of sudden violence radiating in his voice.

She took a step back as he suddenly seemed poised on the brink of a sudden, violent act. "she went out after the man who killed her father. Dare Devil."

"The man ain't no killer," Logan murmured thinking back to the brief fight and much lengthier conversation he had with the man earlier. He was to morally upstanding to kill somebody. He had even been incensed that he was taking clothes straight off the rack. Calling the man anal would be redundant.

- - - - -

From within the thick foliage of the middle branch of a large bole oak tree -- less then a hundred feet up wind from her Aunt Xamil and the short, dark haired stranger -- Rina Sanchez, her jade green eyes -- filled with a mixture of anguish, pain, and a cold, simmering rage -- gazed at the couple. Taking them in from head to toe.

Rina was tall for a girl her age, being just a few months shy of her thirteen birthday. Her height, like her physique, her jet black hair -- which she kept long, tied back in a simple ponytail -- were genetic gifts she inherited from her mother.

Long years of hard training had made sure her gangly body was honed with lean, sculpted muscles. At her young age she was already a master martial artist, as comfortable with a weapon in her hands as she was without one. There were very few people in the world that could match her skill.

The gifts passed down to her from her father, while far less obvious then her height, gave her a greater advantage over her peers. Senses sharper then any animal, bones nearly as hard as steel making them virtually unbreakable.

That however wasn't what made her so dangerous.

It was her body itself, its ability to heal from any wound, any injury, and quicker the older she has became. She could push herself harder then other people, go farther, faster and never have to worry about fatigue, or an injury. Her body simply healed leaving her as fresh as when she started the day.

Although that did make sleep difficult.

Rina was glad for the distraction. It meant she wouldn't have to sneak past her aunt. Not that she couldn't, just that she would prefer not to sneak out on Xamil. Her aunt had been through a lot this past week. As much as Rina herself has.

Maybe more.

And Rina didn't want to cause Xamil any undo worry. Only there was no other way. Some things just couldn't be avoided. They just had to be.

There was a price that had to be paid.

Retribution meted out.

Blood spilt.

A man was running free. A man who killed her grandfather. A man who left her mother for dead on a rooftop.

A man called Dare Devil.

A man she was going to kill.

She wished she was a little closer so she would be able to hear what they were talking about. Maybe even half the distance and she would be able to pick up their words. They would be faint, like a whisper, but she would be able to get some idea what the stranger wanted. Only she didn't want her Aunt to catch her.

So Rina lounged on the heavy branches of the old oak tree remembering the last few conversations she had had with her mother.

Even with their conversations bouncing off satellites and carried around the world Rina could hear the blissful, joyous emotion in the timber of Elektra's voice. For the first time, that she can remember, her mother had been truly happy.

The reason for her good spirits and nearly sublime bliss was the simplest reason of all. She had fallen in love. Fallen hard for a blind lawyer named Matt Murdock.

A hero of the little people. The down trodden. The underprivileged. Those that had no one else to look out for them, but him.

That was just the type of man her mom would fall for.

Meeting him was something she desired, has since her mother first uttered his name to her.

She couldn't do it before hand though. From everything her mom said about the man he would be the first one to try and convince her not to go after Dare Devil.

Not because it was wrong, but because justice, not vengeance, needs to be served.

So after Dare Devil was dead she would go and introduce herself to Murdock. Because for her, vengeance came first.

In that regard she was her mother's daughter.

Possibly her father's as well, but since she has never known the man she couldn't say for sure. In any case it didn't matter. She was satisfied being the one.


	5. Chap 3: Ghost in the Ruins pt3

Chapter Three: Ghost in the Ruins pt3

A low, constant buzz permeated the district courtroom. The noise wilted a little as the lawyers presented their briefs, motions, arguments, and pleas and the Judge made his ruling, but true silence never descended within the venerable room; with its high ceiling, large arched cathedral windows, deep alcoves, nearly two dozen double rows of rolling back bench seats, raised dais that both the witness booth and judge's pulpit sat upon: the room was an acoustical nightmare.

Scott slipped into the alcove beside Jean, leaning his back against the hard, white marble column. No more than fifteen minutes ago they had met with Spider-Man and another young man named William Essex. The youth, only a few years younger then himself, was completely disoriented and believed this was the year eighteen-eighty.

Spider-man had told them what he knew, what he had witnessed during William's scuffle with the police and later with himself. Professor Xavier had confirmed Jean's finding; William was one of those rear individuals resistant to casual telepathic scans, that the strength required to his natural shields would be such that there was the possibility of brain damage.

That revelation had everyone on edge and William hesitant about going back to the school with Charles, Piotr, and Ororo. Eventually they had convinced him that everything would in fact be all right. That they would figure out the mystery that was William Essex. The trio had been reluctant to leave Scott and Jean behind, but timely call from Logan, with the guarantee of having a ride for the pair, had sent the Rolls Royce on its way.

Jean, ever intuitive of Scott's mood, placed a reassuring hand on his strong shoulder; her long, slim fingers squeezed softly. "Everything is going to work itself out." Her voice was firm, full of conviction. An emotion she shared with her lover.

A wane smile crept slowly across his lips. Scott knew what Jean was doing and he loved her for it, but he wasn't ready for one of her emotional pick ups.

Once Jean felt Scott's determination she decided to let him be. She knew better then anyone that when he really wanted to wallow in his misery it was simply a matter of allowing it to run its course.

"Maybe," he replied softly. He wanted to believe her; he just couldn't bring himself to. Nothing in his life had ever been that simple before, and he didn't think it was going to change anytime soon.

"You're going to have to see him… talk to him?" Jean said trying to sound diplomatic.

Scott nodded, a very small bob of his head as he said, "I know." It wasn't a meeting he was looking forward to having.

Just than one of the large double doors opened at the back of the courtroom. Despite the crowd both Scott and Jean had a relatively unobstructed view from their vantage point against the interior wall on the left side of the room. A small entourage of young women, followed by a pair of lawyers - Murdock and Nelson - entered through the open portal.

Scott instantly recognized the two lawyers that were Hank Summers defense attorneys. The pair had a reputation as a couple of Robin Hoods; out to protect the peasants from a corrupt Sheriff Nottingham and an illegal crown. The fact they were defending Hank lent credibility to his claim of innocence.

His eyes though focused in on his sisters; he older, a tiny blonde with piercing green eyes, walked down the aisle as if she were intent on murder. Her eyes searched everywhere, took in everything as she swept the room with an unyielding gaze. He had never seen anyone walk with that much confidence and poise. She looked as if she was ready to take on anything. In fact he thought she looked as if she wanted something to happen just so she could vent a little.

Not for the first time since reading the - extremely extensive - file on Buffy Anne Summers did Scott wonder if his younger sister was a mutant. It was full of unsubstantiated, unconfirmed reports of superhuman feats. There was even the rumor that she had died several years ago.

Scot wasn't sure. After everything that had happened with Jean; he wouldn't discount anything.

Dawn was several inches taller than he older sister. Golden brown hair with a bright sheen and reached to the middle of her back. She had a slight build and was much thinner then Buffy. Her large blue eyes, like a does, were a soft blue. Unlike Buffy, Dawn appeared completely composed; not hovering on the verge of sudden violence.

Scott also recognized the raven hair young woman walking between the two sisters. Isabel Tamara Summers, Hank's new wife. Her once slim waist now bulged heavily with the child she carried. Another brother or maybe sister.

Half-brother.

Half-sister.

He silently corrected himself.

He had know idea who the last three people were; a lean black man of slightly shorter then average height, with the fashionable smooth shaved scalp and well trimmed goatee. His right arm was draped, possessively so, over the shoulder of a lightly tanned young woman whose midnight black hair fell in waves around her shoulders and midwaydown her back. She didn't seem all that comfortable with his familiarity.

A petite redhead, only a little taller then Buffy, trailed just behind the couple. Scott didn't know a lot about female fashion, but even he had to wince at her outfit.

"That's strange," Jean murmured with a trace of wonder.

Scott twisted his head a little to look directly at Jean. "What is?"

"The group your…" Jean stopped giving her head a disgruntle shake. "Buffy and Faith… the dark haired girl with the leather pants," she added at Scott's uncomprehending look. "A sort of psych static encompasses them. The red head, Willow, possess some impressive shields…"

"But," Scott prompted when Jean hesitates.

"Its Dawn," she swiveled her head a little to follow the young girl as she slid into the bench seat next to Isabel; right behind the polished banister that separated the public from where the court took care of business. "She's there; I can see her, only… she isn't there. When I try to touch her mind there's this blank space where she should be."

"Like William?"

Before Jean can answer the bailiff called out, "Hank Summers. Charged with Murder in the first degree."

"Give me a plea counselor," Judge Morris Torledsky ordered dispassionately having already grown weary with the days proceedings and hoping that nothing untoward should occur between now and lunch.

"Not guilty, your honor," Murdock answered strongly.

"The matter of bail?"

"The state request remained your honor," Serena requested in a level voice that was tinged with a trace of anger.

"Your honor, any prolonged separation from his wife and children at this time could cause an unnecessary strain on the family unit."

"You mean the family unit he walked out on four years ago?" There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice.

"Hey B," Faith whispered with a none to gentle poke into Buffy's ribs. "Doesn't blonde there remind you of a certain lady cop from la la land?"

"She didn't even bat an eye when she looked at me," Buffy whispered back.

Faith nodded as she replied saying, "me either. She acted like she didn't even know me. Hell, she use to visit me. Just a few times, but still."

"Maybe it's a good thing she didn't recognize you then," Buffy commented as she turned her head just enough to catch Faith's eye. In a voice only another slayer could hear she said, "you being an escaped con with a fake I.D."

Faith scanned the courtroom, checking out all the cops and bailiffs. "You saying a court house isn't a good place for me to lay low?" She asked with a cocky smirk.

"Not that having you around hasn't been a blast… It would probably be a good idea to make yourself scarce before somebody round here catches a clue."

"What's going on?" Wood questioned catching the building tension.

"Gotta motor," Faith said standing up.

Wood rose with her. "Let's go."

Faith shook her head. "Gotta go alone. Move fast. That sort of thing." With that she slipped past him and strode down the aisle with a confident step.

A step that Matt followed with interest. He hadn't meant to listen in on the conversation between the two women and considering the volume it was held at he wouldn't have been able to if he didn't possess enhanced senses. A fact that brought into question how they managed to hold it in the first place? A person would need super hearing to have heard their own half of the conversation; never mind what the other person's reply.

The door opened with Faith still half a dozen feet away. Logan stepped through the doorway and his eyesinstantly locked on the brunette striding towards him. Time seemed to slow, as if it moved through some type of viscous gel as the pair eyed each other warily; like two predators on the prowl, gauging each other's strengths and weaknesses. They pass each other slowly, cautiously; almost circling.

Faith grabbed hold of the door as she continued to watch Logan; then she stepped back pulling the door shut behind her.

Logan inhaled deeply as reality reasserted itself. The girl's scent had been overwhelming, drowning out everything else around him. That was the first time he can remember anything like that happening to him. If he didn't have so many other problems at the moment it might have worried him more. He pulled himself into the present.

Spotting Scott and Jean he weaved his way through the courtroom and made his way to the far wall. With an easy going smirk Logan sidled right up alongside the taller man without him being aware of his presence. "Gotta say boy scout…" Scott gave a small start at Logan's sudden, unexpected words. "…somebody must have thrown that apple a country mile from the tree."

Scott gave Logan a perplexed look at his statement, but doesn't comment. If Logan wanted to explain himself he would. "You said you had some information?"

"Nothing you're gonna like," Logan replied in a low growl.

The hesitation in his voice made Scott wonder. He figured Logan would enjoy giving him bad news; the worst it was the faster he would tell him. "What is it?" Scott couldn't keep the challenge out of his voice.

Logan could almost understand the anger in Scott's voice. Almost, but not quite. "Summers. I might not like you, but if I had a life like yours… I wouldn't want my memories back."

"What did you learn Logan?" Jean asked softly trying to keep the two of them civil. For the time being anyway.

Logan glanced at Jean for a second before turning hard eyes back to Scott. Without any preamble he began by saying, "twenty-five years ago Hank Summers was a rather ruthless businessman. Some of the stuff he was into, while it wasn't illegal wasn't exactly ethical either."

Scot gave his head a tiny, almost imperceptible shake toward the end. Once Logan finished talking Scot's glare intensified. Before Scott can speak Jean said, "the Professor's contacts never mentioned anything like that, there was nothing like it in Hank's mind."

"Like memories can't be wiped out, an entire life erased with the wave of a hand?" It was easy for them to believe that the anger in Logan's voice came from his own amnesia. Logan quickly bottled his emotions back up. He couldn't be running off half cocked, not today.

Especially not when the man he needed to warn was in the building. Less then half a score of yards away from him. He almost found it amusing that Dare-Devil was a blind lawyer. At least he wouldn't have to spend the day searching the city.

"As for Xavier's contacts, records can be fudged," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Besides old man Summers never would've shown up on their radar. Man knew how to keep his nose clean." His hand dipped into his coat pocket.

"Then how did you?" Scott demanded in a voice as cold as a glacier.

Logan tossed Scott a set of keys. "From people that don't keep those kind of records," he said as Scott caught the keys. "They liked using him because he was clean, because he took steps to ensure he'd stay that way. From what they told me, no one knew he had a wife and kids."

Scott clenched his fist, felt the keys jagged edge as it dug into his flesh. "How do you know it's the same person?"

Logan shrugged as he said, "same name… time frame fits. Twenty-five years ago he vanished… without a trace. S.O.P. for these people so no one gave it a second thought." He glanced toward the front where the Summers women were gathered around their lawyer. "I know it ain't what you want to hear… Deal with it bub. You've got yourself a family you never knew about… A fine looking bunch of skirts if you ask me. Wouldn't go blaming them for shit they had no part in. Bike's on the third floor, space nineteen. It's a nice ride, you'll enjoy it. Just remember I haven't finished making payments on it… now if you don't mind I got some personal business to take care of."

As he turned away Scott's voice stopped him as he spoke. "Logan… Thank you." The words sounded as if they had been dragged out of his throat with a red hot pincer, but he did manage to say them.

Logan grunted, sourly, before continuing on his way.

"I don't think I'm ever going to understand that man," Scott added as Logan walked up to where Buffy and her group were talking to their lawyers.

"We're his family," Jean began thoughtfully. "Something he's never had before. He's trying to figure it out as he goes."

As Logan draws close to the group Buffy's senses go on alert as she feels the approach of something decidedly dangerous. She twisted her head around to take in the gruff man striding straight towards her.

"'Cuse me darling," Logan growled as he squeezed his way between Buffy and Willow.

"Rude much," Dawn grumbled as she was jostled by Willow.

Logan stopped; his sharp eye glare causing Dawn to swallow hard. Buffy kept her smile small as she enjoyed her sister's sudden anxiety. She might have forgiven everyone for kicking her out of her own house all those months ago. She could admit to herself that she was still petty enough to take pleasure in their minor discomforts.

Logan leaned in close; allowing the feeling of menace to grow before speaking. "Just wait till you get to know me," he warned in a dangerously low voice.

Dawn shrank back, without ever moving. She has faced vampires and worse her entire life. She wasn't about to back down to this short scruffy little man that she towered over. "As if." She was quite proud of the fact her voice didn't quiver in the slightest.

Logan's smile broadened as he continued to stare at her. She could feel ice form along her nerves as his gaze bored into her.

"Mr. Logan…"

Dawn feels like a mouse that had been frozen by the presence of a rattlesnake. A rattlesnake whose attention was pulled elsewhere.

"…is there something I can help you with?"

"Sure is counselor," Logan began as he turned to face Murdock. "Seems there's this little girl itching for some payback. Thinks this guy put her grandpa in the ground, tried to do the same to her mother… only problem is she's after is the wrong guy."

Matt stood there in shock. If what Logan was telling him was the truth, and he had no reason to believe it wasn't, than Elektra was alive. It also meant she had a daughter; a daughter that was hunting him. Hunting his alter ego.

While Matt was hunting wrapping his mind around what Logan had said Buffy asked, "What does any of that have to do with Mr. Murdock?"

"The guy's a client of Matt's," Logan answered almost civilly. He had the feeling a stern backbone was a family trait. Then had to wonder where they all got it from. "I was just hoping the counselor would pass along a message, set up a meeting tonight?"

"Just give me a time and a place and I'll make sure he's there," Matt guaranteed without hesitation.

Buffy blinked, surprised at the vehemence in Matt's voice. It almost sounded like this was personal to him.

"Full dark, the roof of that little pizzeria across from Central Park's North gate."

"He'll be there."

"I'll be waiting." With that Logan turned and walked away, brushing pass Willow without a single word of apology.

Buffy noted that even to her ears, his footfalls make a barely perceptible whisper. Her gaze followed the man until it swept pass a couple standing in one of the many deep, sheltered alcoves along the interior wall. The woman was a striking; with fiery red hair with calm, reassuring green eyes. An odd combination she didn't see often.

Her own green eyes however settle on the man wearing the stylish red sunglasses standing at her side. There was something familiar about him; Buffy just couldn't put her finger on what it was; the set of his jaw, his flat light brown hair.

She wished she could see his eyes. Then she wondered what kind of person would wear sunglasses inside a building. Only the fact that Mr. Murdock is blind and wears sunglasses all the time keeps her from making some asinine comment.

Logan easily picked up the girl's trail in the wide, airy hall outside the courtroom. There was difference in her scent; something he had never come across before. It set his blood blazing and had his always fragile control teetering on the edge.

He could walk away. That would be the sensible thing to do. He had other duties and obligations that required his attention. Only he had never been known for making the sensible decision.

He wasn't about to start now.

Setting his course Logan followed her trail deeper into the building.


	6. Interlude

Disclaimer: I wish I could take credit for creating all the characters that I used in this story. If I did that more then likely I would be sued for everything I own, which aside form the shirt on my back isn't a lot so… Disclaimer! Disclaimer! Disclaimer! I own none of them… They all belong to other people, people who have way more – not to mention way cooler – stuff then I do, so no suing me.

Author Notes: For those who might be slightly confused reading this chapter, please be patient, all shall be revealed… _Maybe_ …in the end. This portion of the story is as the title says, an Interlude, a break from the action – the story – taking place in New York.

Next Saturday – 7/23/05 – I should be posting the next chapter for …And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps. Enjoy, and remember feedback is always appreciated.

Bastille Kain

* * *

Interlude

"This is the story of a time long ago, a time of myth and legend, when the Earth was still young. The ancient gods were petty and cruel, and they plagued mankind with suffering and besieged them with terrors. For centuries the people had nowhere to turn, no one to look to for help.

"Until he arrived.

"He was a man like no other. Born of a beautiful mortal woman, but fathered by Zeus, king of the gods. Hercules possessed a strength the world had never seen, a strength surpassed only by the power of his hea…

"Aaargh!" The wide screen television seemed to implode with the scream. "I hate that show," the tall, darkly handsome man avowed in a soft growl. The dark suit he wore – black slacks, a black silk button down shirt with the top four buttons undone, revealed a chiseled chest – was hand tailored; made from the finest, most exotic materials available with absolutely no concern for the cost. His goatee, black as a starless sky, was trimmed to a perfect razor's edge.

Everything about him screamed power. A man comfortable with it; unafraid of it. A man completely adept with all its varied applications.

"As you say sir," an elderly gentleman said in a clear, pristine, and polished voice. His snow white hair formed a broken crown around a bald plate that shined dully under the soft, overhead light. In complete contrast to his employer's relaxed style; the elegant black suit he wore was pressed to a rigidity that would allow it to stand on its own. "Shall I have another television brought up, sir?"

The tall man gave his butler a hard eye stare; that not only questioned his intelligence, but his lineage as well. "Very well sir." He turned away with crisp, military precision, took a step, then turned back with the same precision. "Your pardon sir, I believe the guest you were expecting is about…"

A brackish hole swirled to life in the dark wood paneled ceiling. "Aaaaaahhh!" Could be heard through the hole. A second later a female body hit the floor – face first – with a thud. She lay there in a heap; a mass of raven dark hair, supple limbs, and soft leather. A low groan rose from the woman.

"…to arrive," he finished.

"You don't say." His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Without batting an eye the butler said, "I believe I just did."

The closed his eyes warily and took a deep breath. Opening them he said, "You have absolutely no sense of humor," in a tone as dry as Death Valley in July.

"Of course sir," he agreed placidly. "Shall I prepare a meal for you and your guest?"

A mild snort echoed through the room at the question. "So you do have a sense of humor." Before the butler can respond he waved him off. "Just get my television up here." With a nod the old man turned once more and strode from the room. "And send in that dweeb my jerk of an uncle foisted on me."

The bald head bobbed marginally in acknowledgment as the old man pulled the double doors close as he exited the room. Kevin, as he was known to the world at large, watched the doors for a moment wondering why he kept the old prune around. A broken rock had to have more of a personality then that dried up husk had.

Putting the man out of his mind he turned his attention back to the raven haired woman lying face down on his Ming Dynasty rug. "You better not leave any stains." His robust voice had the sound of man use to giving orders, and having those orders obeyed. "It's an original and I'd rather not have to replace it if you don't mind."

The woman lifted her head at the sound of his voice; her dark hair falling in front of confused eyes. She twisted her head and neck around to look back over her shoulder. Dark eyes hardened as they gazed upon the man, hatred filled them instantly. "Ares!" She hissed making the name sound like a curse.

An arrogant smile graced his lips. "Good to see you too," he replied as she strained to push herself upright.

She stood on unsteady feet, forcing herself to remain standing through sheer force of will. Her dark eyes took in the opulence with badly concealed contempt. She had vague remembrances of partaking in the finer things in life when the circumstances permitted… a touch of pampering never went amiss, but living in such luxury was a sure fired way to lose your fighting edge.

Not that Ares, god of war had to worry about losing his edge. He was one of a handful she never defeated in personal combat. Even Hercules didn't defeat Ares in single combat; dispatched his minions, foiled his plots, and made a general nuisance of himself, all done with contemptuous ease. But actually win a fight against Ares, the god of war; Hercules was simply the son of god, one that had a penchant for sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted.

"Where in the pits of Tartarus am I?" Her voice was full of unsuppressed anger.

"Tartarus," Ares spat out with a raucous laugh. "This is LA. Los Angeles. The city of angels… the new hell on earth; home to agents, producers, and TV moguls." He looks at her blank expression and shakes his head disappointedly. "Person spends a couple millennium floating in the ether; with so much free time on your hands I figured you would've kept yourself abreast of current events."

"You never did have much of a way with words Ares," she sneered showing nothing but contempt for the god of war. "Tell me why you've brought me here and speak plain or send me back where…"

"Slow down there," Ares interrupted her. "Don't be in such a rush… can't a couple of old friends simply kick back and shoot the shit about the good old days; the looting, the pilla…"

"We were never friends," she hissed in disgust. She knew that as surely as she knew her name was…

A blank look creased her face.

She shrugged off the desolate feeling.

Ares was here. She remembered fighting him time and time again. Epic battles that always seemed larger then they were. Somehow he must have done this to her. She knew it in her gut.

Ares Smiled fondly as he turned away from his guest totally unconcerned with whatever rash action she might take. "Your right, we never were friends… Our relationship transcended such bonds."

She scowled menacingly at his back. The more she tried to remember her past the more elusive it became. It didn't matter to her. She knew, instinctively, that whatever he said was a lie. Or something so close there was no difference between the two.

Opening the door to his liquor cabinet Ares pulled out a bottle of Cognac. "Care for a drink?"

She snorted derisively before answering. "I could be in the heart of the Sahara, dieing of thirst and I wouldn't take a drink from your hand." Again she knew her statement was true, but didn't know how she knew.

Ares continued to pour his drink. "That's a shame, especially considering everything we have to discus…" he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "…The fall of Rome, the internet, internal combustion engine, the Gauls rise to power, automatic firearms, a Jihad or two, Hiroshima, a holocaust, the war to end all wars, apartheid, Chernobyl." Ares took a sip of his Cognac before turning back to her. He brought the crystalline glass back down and stared into the dark liquid. "Rock 'n' Roll, colored television, the monorail, Japanese anime…"

She took a step forward and snarled, "You're starting…"

"…Gabrielle," he breathed out softly.

She came to a stop, her knuckles turning white as she clenched her fist. The name was important to her, as were the images that came with it; a strong, vibrant, woman with an indomitable will. Even after years of fighting at her side she was still so naïve, so trusting, and giving of herself; the most beautiful person, inside and out that she had ever meant. She had meant everything to her, kept her from tumbling off the path she had chosen.

That Ares said her name was an insult that couldn't be forgiven.

Ares grinned internally without giving away anything. Being the god of war, Ares enjoyed ever type of struggle. Personal conflict – that war of self; between right and wrong, safe and spontaneous, righteousness and amorality – always intrigued him.

She took a step forward, her body trembling with rage. "How dare you even mention her name."

He smirked slightly as he said, "Temper, temper Warrior Princess." In a deliberately casual manner he took another slow sip of his drink. He lowered his glass and warned, "You really don't want to tick off the god of war."

The title resonated within her. It fit her, felt right. "I've taken your measure before," she hissed taking another step forward.

He leered knowingly as his eyes glazed over her; burning with desire. "I remember," he replied intimately after a brief pause. The haze of desire dimmed in his eyes after a few seconds. "That however was before you discovered the fairer se…"

"You're slime Ares," she bite off between clenched teeth. She knew the words were true, but once again couldn't remember how she knew. "I should have put you in the ground with the rest of your insipid family when I had the power."

Ares chuckled at her. "You still believe you could kill us? We're Gods. Did you believe some minor upstart entity could imbue you… a mortal with enough power to kill us?"

Her face soured, he sees the questions burning there. "What do you mean?"

"You did?" He gave his head a small shake then took a long draw from his glass of Cognac. "Even now you couldn't kill the weakest of us."

"I was there… I saw them die," she snarled; her anger returning.

"True, you were given power… of a sort," Ares replied cryptically as he leaned back against the wall. He drained the remainder of his Cognac and placed the empty goblet back on the liquor cabinet shelf. "You couldn't kill us, but you could banish us… for an age or so."

She shrugged saying, "So?"

Ares sighed, slightly disappointed in his one time protégé. "Think about it for a minute. We gain our strength from the number of beings that believe in us."

"So somebody wanted you out of the picture." She said slowly as her mind began putting the pieces together. Understanding flashed in her eyes as she continued, "creating a vacuum that they could fill." She looked up at the god of war. "Why use me?"

Ares smiled faintly at her. "Let's face some painfully obvious facts. With a few exceptions, members of my… extended family were never what you'd call… Physically gifted… Endowed, yes… Gifted, no. While you have always been the pinnacle of your craft… why wouldn't they use you? One on one, you could have beaten most of them."

She fumed silently as she took in what Ares told her. She didn't like being used. More so, she didn't like that Ares pointed it out to her. Not that she believed a word he said.

"A few of us," Ares was still saying, "actually benefited from the shift in the power structure."

"Why doesn't it surprise me that would find a way to benefit from the deaths of your brothers and sisters?" The scowl on her face was only a fraction of the hate she felt for him.

"How many times do I have to tell you? You didn't kill them…"

"Only banished them, as long as they weren't making mankind suffer I could really care less," she said.

"Interesting as this has been, it has nothing to do with why I brought you here," Ares said with a hint of warning in his voice.

"Gabrielle?"

"Isn't the Gabrielle you remember," he smiled fondly, "she's become quite the little firebrand. You'd be proud of her."

Her face hardened at Ares comment. Beneath the anger Ares could see the pain in her eyes. "You said Gabrielle was here."

"Actually I never said any such thing. I simply insinuated…" He moved to his plush, black leather sofa. "…you're the one that made an assumption." He sat down, sinking into the supple leather. "It's really your fault," he added with deep meanings hidden in his words.

"Don't play games with me."

Again Ares smiled as if remembering a quaint story. "You're the one that put that fire in her belly, made her want to strive and be a better person… one that would make a difference." He extended his legs as he spoke and crossed his ankles. "Powers take notice of those things; we're kind of big on the whole recycling thing… Most call it reincarnation."

"You're still not making any sense," she threatened.

"Not making any sense," he scoffed. He sat up, leaned forward. "I'm making nothing but sense. Certain people attract the attention of the powers… people they can use to further their cause on Earth." He grinned at her and added, "Like you."

"I've never…"

"How would you know?" He snapped with biting anger cutting her off. "You're born with no memories of your previous life… you were the best agent I ever had," he finished proudly.

Her eyes went wide and she staggered back as if she had been struck by Hercules. The news was stunning. "You're lying," she snarled in defiant anger.

Ares rose to his feet with ease. He gazed at her, his eyes trying to bore holes in her head. "The memories haven't…" He shook his head saying, "doesn't matter, they'll return… eventually."

There was so much she didn't remember, herself most of all. Memories were plastered over her consciousness, but they were so few and far between. She knew what she knew, but was any of it real. She glared at him seething with hatred. "I'll never follow you Ares." The words were said with enough anger that they were nearly a palpable force.

"Please," Ares sneered in disdain. "If I wanted a follower I'd simply groom one. Even in this PC dominated society I'm still turning away potential acolytes at my door." At times even he couldn't believe it, especially considering the social and political atmosphere of the day. Most of his disciples didn't even know they were his disciples. "No Xena, if I had wanted you back on my side I would have allowed you to be born into the world again. While it would have made getting you to do my bidding infinitely easier… I'm on something of a schedule and don't have time to have you trained properly."

Xena snorted, not allowing the elation she felt at finally knowing her name show on her face. "What in the name of Hades makes you think I'll do anything that you want?"

Ares smiled at her and said, "Gabrielle. You want her back and I know where she is. I know that has got to be worth something to you. Besides… I think you'd rather enjoy this assignment?"

"What is it?" Xena asked despite herself.

Ares became very somber and in a deadly serious voice he said, "Kill Hera."

Xena laughed, a mirthless sound. "You tell me I didn't have the power to kill a god…"

"You don't," Ares said simply.

"…and now you want me kill the queen of the gods? The centuries have driven you mad Ares," she said with scorn.

He shrugged slightly as he said, "Sure you don't want that drink?" Her eyes; hard, unwavering, unflinching, gave him all the answer he needed as she glared at him. "Looks like I'm still drinking alone," he said; he sounded resigned to the fact. He turned and started back towards his liquor cabinet as he said. "Hera isn't in what you'd call top form now a days either," he opened the glass door and removed his bottle of Cognac, "an interesting story from back in the day," he continued as he filled a fresh crystal goblet. He turned back around; eyes focused on the amber liquid that swirled lazily in the bottom of his glass. He seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. "Back in the day," he mumbled with a slight chuckle in genuine amusement, "as if everything was somehow better when everyone huddled arou…"

"Ares," Xena hissed bringing his attention back to the moment. "You're really starting to test my patience."

Ares snorted at her in a way that said her threats were about as intimidating as a single, solitary ant. He raised his crystal goblet to his lips and took a slow pull. After lowering his glass he began telling Xena what happened. "Herc finally took pops up on his offer, accepted his inheritance and all… While mom was starting to get back up to her old tricks, not that she had ever learnt any new ones. One thing led to another, big fight… world hanging in the balance type of fight. All that really mattered in the end was that overbearing, mass of righteousness I'm forced to call a brother, tossed Hera into the Abyss."

"If you think I'm going into the abyss to make sure the jobs done…"

"Don't be a fool," Ares snapped cutting her off. "Without protection, you couldn't even survive Olympus. Besides if that was the end of it we wouldn't be having this conversation… As it turned out Hera's a tougher bird then anybody gave her credit for. You believe she actually managed to claw her way out of the Abyss." A pensive expression creased his brow. "Of course the effort left her drained of everything, completely defenseless against Zeus."

Xena almost shuddered at the statement. Amongst the gods, Zeus seldom interfered in the affairs of gods or men. When he did, he did so with spectacular results. "She survived?"

"If you want to call it that," Ares said with a humorless smirk. "Pops has a hard enough time dispatching his most ruthless enemy. He could never harm anybody he loves, and no matter how many affairs he's had… Zeus will always love Hera."

"What did he do with her then?" She couldn't help the curiosity that crept into her voice.

"The worst thing he could have done to her," Ares said cryptically. He lifted his glass to his lips and took a short pull. His eyes continued to study the amber liquid as if he could find secrets contained within. "He made her human," he said. He looked up at her and added, "Or something like it?" He shrugged dismissively as he explained, "She's born; lives for a time, sometimes a long time, sometimes a short time, sometimes heroically, sometimes in abject obscurity, in opulence or squalor just like every single one of you humans. There are always a few relatives present to witness her passing… and of course Zeus. He's always there when she dies."

Xena frowned pensively. She knew Ares even though she couldn't remember him, or the convoluted history they shared. It felt like he was hiding something from her. "If she's human why don't you do the job yourself?"

"Xena, Xena, Xena," he said as if speaking down to a child. "Dad would not find it overly amusing, if I, killed mom. And while I'm fairly certain he wouldn't spread my atoms from one end of eternity to the other… what he did to Prometheus and the other titans would seem like Spring Break spent in Cancun compared to what he would do to me. Plus, do you think Zeus is stupid… almost all of us would love a shot at repaying Hera for all the tenderness she showed us." He gave a humorless laugh. "Other then Zeus the only one of us that knows where Hera is, is Hercules."

Xena barely contained her laughter. She knew she would never be able to handle that kind of responsibility, but what she can remember of Hercules the man was quite capable of setting his personal feelings aside. An impressive feat considering the animosity Hercules felt towards Hera had nearly taken on a life all its own.

She couldn't blame him; the queen of the gods had his family killed for no other reason then he was happy and she wasn't. Now Zeus entrusted his son with his wife's life. If the wrong person ever dug that little nugget out of Hercules – unlikely as that seemed – then Hera would never know anything but eternal torment.

"I've never beaten Hercules before," Xena reminded him with a quizzical furrow to her brow. She knew the statement was true, but wasn't sure how she knew. "What makes you think I'll have a better chance now?"

"You won't have to worry about little brother, I'll be keeping him busy," Ares said with a smile. He took another draw from his glass. "So do we have ourselves a deal?"

"Why now? Why at all? Even if I kill her, she'll just be reborn like all…"

Ares shook his head as he said, "Not this time." He took another short pull from his drink before he continued. "I've been informed, by a very reliable source that this is it. When she dies this time Hera will truly be back unless you can prevent it."

* * *

The door to the Hyperion opened with its customary squeak; a tiny sound that nobody had bothered to fix. Not Angel or any of his people when the grand hotel had served as their base of operations. Or the gang of slayers that were presently using it as a layover; a place they could catch their collective breath while figuring out their next move.

It was an annoyance to be sure, but it was also an effective way of alerting people to a new arrival, a potential customer, or the return of a friend gone too long.

Of course somebody had to actually be within hearing distance to be aware of the newcomer's arrival.

Xander held two large suitcases, that closely resembled small trunks, in his hands as he pushed the door open, and stepped inside the portal, his back pressed against the door. He felt as if his arms were being pulled from their sockets. His dark brown eyes gazed over the lobby with appreciation.

While he despised Angel nearly as much as he loathed Spike; Xander had to admit the master vampire had an impeccable sense of style. The mansion back in Sunnydale – which now resided in a Sunnydale size creator; something he was going to have to ask Giles or Willow or Buffy or… god forbid Spike about – and now this hotel.

"Figure people who owned a hotel would at least have a couple of bellhops for when company arrived all unexpected," Xander murmured sounding envious of the wealth this building represented. Wealth Angel had and he didn't.

Stepping inside Xander pushed the door wide open for the love of his life, his reason for being, the woman he can't imagine living his life without. His wife for the last six weeks.

Anya.

The young woman stepped inside the doorway. Her contribution to bringing in the large truckload of luggage was the extra large purse she had slung over her shoulder. Her hair was dyed a rustic auburn color with blonde frosting. "Angel doesn't run a very good establishment," she criticized critically as she ran her eyes over the interior.

"Yeah well… Angel never was very good," he left the statement unfinished and deliberately vague. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut.

"How does he expect to make any kind of profit if he doesn't do a better job of servicing his customers?" She couldn't understand how somebody could run a business and so callously neglect his clients. Once the costumer was relieved of their money then it was all right to treat them as a second class citizen, but if you wished to gain a larger tip then you had to cater to their every whim.

"You do remember that Angel doesn't actually run a hotel right An," he nodded his head towards the lobby, "he just uses this as a base of operation for his detective agency."

"Well that's a waste of potential," she said stepping down the stairs. She looked up and swiveled her head around getting her first real glimpse of the palatial interior. "This is downtown Los Angeles, a prime location for real estates. He could make a small fortune renting out the upper floors to other businesses… plus he could also allow his clients to use any spare bedrooms and charge them a room and board fee for the duration of the case. Even if they didn't stay here he would still be able to charge them as long as he had it written into a contract, some of the exceptionally small print… or part of the disclaimer. No one ever reads the disclaimer."

Xander shrugged noncommittally. It had taken him a long time to let go of his blinding hatred of Angel; sure he still despised the vampire – with cause – but he was no longer going to put his friendship with Buffy, Willow, or Dawn on the line, or risk jeopardizing his marriage to Anya just on the off chance of causing Angel some well deserved pain.

Plus he had also grown enough to realize Buffy didn't love Angel; he has simply been the safe choice. As long as Angel was in the picture then Buffy would never have to deal with her true feelings. Emotions she had been suppressing for years now.

Years that he had secretly held out hope that he was the one she loved, but he wasn't. The realization that the best he could do with Buffy was friendship had been a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he wasn't a fool – no matter how he acted. Everyone knew Spike loved Buffy, and not in Angel's stalkerish obsession type of way either; but true, unconditional love. Spike knew he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of Buffy ever returning his feelings, yet he still loved her.

Loved her to the point that even after she was dead – when he had no idea they had been planning on bringing Buffy back – he still kept his promise to her. He stayed in Sunnydale, protected the hell mouth… protected Dawn. Spike and Tara had taken on the role of surrogate parents for the young teenager when nobody else had been ready, willing, or capable of taking on that role.

Only Buffy had changed after they resurrected her. She had pulled away from everyone except for Spike. Him she was drawn to, a moth to the flame.

He knew she was sleeping with Spike; had strong suspicions at least… and if she hadn't slept with him yet, then it was only a matter of time.

He hadn't caught the pair in any compromising positions; though there was that time a few weeks ago when Buffy had been invisible and he caught Spike doing naked push-ups in his bed. He had spent enough time around the vampire over that summer to know his attitude about physical fitness. A vampire would look forever like they did the night they died. They could effect cosmetic changes, dyed hair and the like, but they couldn't change themselves.

A bald human would be a bald vampire, needing glasses to read didn't change even though they could see in the dark and the didn't suffer nearsightedness or farsightedness and their depth perception was spot on – as Spike had put it – a skinny man would make a skinny vampire, and a fat human would always be a bloated vampire… unless the vampire took a fancy to starving themselves, a habit most sane vampires avoided with the same blind zealousness that would cause a PETA member to firebomb an animal testing facility.

The squeaking springs had sounded an awful lot like a woman's grunts of pleasure. Since he lived in blissfully in the land of denial, and as long as he didn't have definitive proof otherwise he wouldn't have to change his address any time soon, he could ignore the obvious.

It was on his wedding day though; when one of Anya's innumerable victims returned seeking revenge by hurting her in the worst way possible. Somehow, he still wasn't sure; it was like an epiphany, a ray of pure light had broken through the downpour that had washed over him, to illuminate something that was so simple, something he should have seen years ago, he came to the realization that his own obsession with Buffy was going to destroy his relationship with Anya. He could have tried to delude himself, convince himself that he had a shot with Buffy, but deep down he knew that was never going to happen.

Anya loved him. Anya saw him for who he was, nothing more, nothing less and loved him despite it, or maybe because of it. He wasn't sure which; just that she loved him, and he was moments away from throwing it all away.

Xander still didn't understand how Anya had insinuated herself so deeply in his life. It was like she had simply showed up one day and wouldn't leave. Their first date was hardly a resounding success. Their second date some four months later, turned out somewhat better and the evening consummated with a little consummation. From there things had just progressed to where he couldn't imagine his life without her in it.

He had married Anya – after a couple of her relations had tossed the demon wedding crasher to the curb – while wearing a tuxedo wet enough to have doused the great Chicago fire. D'Hoffryn hadn't looked particularly pleased, but he was passed caring what some grumpy old demon thought. Halfrek seemed genuinely happy for her friend and for that Xander was glad.

While it had only been six weeks, almost all of which had been spent on the Florida coast, where they had enjoyed the fun and the sun without all the extracurricular activities found in Sunnydale, it had felt like a lifetime since they had last seen their friends.

"Hello!" He shouted into the quite. The sound felt sacrilegious in the silence. "Anybody here? Angel! Wesley!"

"Doesn't seem like anyone's home," Anya said as she spun around on the smooth marble floor, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "If we lock all the doors we could have sex in the lobby, and on the stairs, and maybe Angel's office… It would really irritate Angel, having to smell that everyday."

"I'm thinking that's…"

"Xander," Giles voiced called from the office.

The sound of his voice caused the newlyweds to glance at each other skeptically. As far as either of them knew the watcher was still in England. Unless he had returned because of what happened in Sunnydale. Xander felt a brief flash of jealousy because nobody had called him, only he had made it clear that he didn't want to be disturbed on his honeymoon.

"Why didn't you give us a ring?" The middle-aged watcher said – a little more gray at his temples, and a tad more girth around his waist then Xander remembered – as he stepped out of his office and stood behind the counter. Giles wasn't overly fond of the insufferable little prat, but everything they had gone through in six and a half years had formed a bond not too dissimilar to soldiers who had served with each other for years. While he would never admit to it, Giles did find himself missing the young man's more then useless prattle that flowed off his tongue at the completely wrong moment. "Let us know how yo…"

He stopped dead as he got his first decent look at Xander and his two good brown eyes. There were places that peddled in human flesh, but he doubted that Xander had the credentials, never mind the cash necessary to buy a new eye, not to mention the bulk he had put on over the last few years.

Unless he had offered them something infinitely more valuable?

A few weeks ago he never would have believed anything like that was possible; but with Angel, Wesley, and their entire staff taking over Wolfram Hart – not working at the law firm but running it – he wasn't sure what to belie…

"I've got half a mind to give Halfrek a chant," Anya said as she turned around to face Giles.

As shocked as he had been to see Xander with two good eyes; it paled in comparison to the sight of Anya standing in front of him, apparently hale and hearty. He could almost feel the blood freeze in his veins, his brain compressed to the point where he couldn't pull one fact, one word out of it. He had seen her standing there, back to him, but he hadn't paid her the slightest attention; perhaps subconsciously he hadn't wanted to deal with what was going on.

Thunderclouds seemed to dance in her eyes as she advanced on him. He took a step back before he could stop himself. "Don't bother to show up for my wedding…" She put extra emphasis on the word, like it was the only one worthy of notice. "…a beautiful ceremony by the way, everyone had a great time… even Buffy since she got to kill an evil demon that tried to ruin my wedding…" Once again she stressed the word above all the others. "…except for you, since you never bothered to show up even though you RSVPed in the affirmative… while one little cataclysm brings you running." She turned slightly to face, her face was a calm mask as she said, "I told you we should have scheduled our wedding just prior to the nearest apocalypse."

"We came close enough An," Xander said taking the last few steps down the flight of stairs. "No need to go looking for trouble since it seems to find us easy enough."

Giles stepped forward, closing on Anya. He grabbed her by the shoulders in a painful grip. Resulting in a miffed, "Ow."

"Not the First," he said in relief though he had doubted the thought from conception. It was too clumsy for the ultimate evil. "You died," he finally managed to say. A tear streaked down his cheek. It was quickly followed by a second as he fought to maintain his composure. He couldn't allow his emotions to get the better of him.

Especially not now.

Anya turned suspicious eyes on him. "Don't think that's going to get you out of buying me an expensive, albeit belated, wedding present… and exactly when did Sunnydale get turned into a creator?"

* * *

Ares watched the door Xena, and that waste of human by-product had exited through with the intensity of a hawk scoring a field for its dinner. He didn't know if the warrior princess was going to fulfill her end of their agreement or not.

It was doubtful.

She wasn't the same woman she had once been.

A long time ago she had been his most valued lieutenants. Life after life she was born and through his careful manipulations quickly came under his tutelage. Once he had even contemplated making her his bride.

That was until Hercules got inside her head; forever corrupting her with his chivalric, self-sacrificing attitude about morality, right and wrong, and a whole host of other things he found repugnant. It was the reason he had kept her essence out of the pool of champions; those few catalyst destined to be born out time and time again. Without trying they were able to affect the course of history, almost shape it to their will.

That was until the gods, and the other powers found out about them. Then they simply became pawns; to be used and manipulated by any power that dined to use them. Sometimes several powers would use a single catalyst, turning that person's life into a turbulent nightmare as they were pulled in vastly different directions.

Whether or not Xena killed Hera was immaterial; her job was simply to locate the queen of the gods in her mortal guise.

She was simply a decoy.

His primary assassin would see to Hera's demise.

He smiled to himself, raised his crystalline goblet filled with Cognac and drained the glass of its contents.

He had been less then completely forthcoming with the Warrior Princess, and while parts of what he told her were the truth, he hadn't been entirely honest. There was one condition that needed to be met before Hera could retake her rightful place amongst the gods. But according to his source; who claimed to be evil incarnate, the source of all evil; that condition was about to be met.

Unconditional Love.

He had been shocked to find out that Hera was pregnant, more so when he found out the father was human. According to his source, who insisted on being called the First, there were very few things that could illicit a response such as unconditional love. What a parent, especially a mother, feels for a child immediately after child birth was one of those circumstances.

Nobody had ever considered him stupid and he understood the folly of trusting a being that called itself the First Evil, but he didn't need to trust this being. It obviously wanted Hera's unborn child, his brother or sister – he hadn't bothered to ask which – dead, and he would prefer to keep Hera out of Olympus.

He much preferred being third in the pecking order as compare to his pre Judeo-Christian position. He was one of the few gods whose power didn't come from the number of beings that worshiped at his temples; they didn't hurt, but all he needed was the violence that permeated this world. With a population of six billion plus, and constantly on the rise, it was like an all you can eat buffet. At times he felt stuffed to the gills.

It was one of the reasons he had aided Athena in her plot against Jasmine. Although he thought she had lost what little tactical skill she possessed when he found out how she had him using Achilles, but in the end her plan came off without a hitch. At the same time a pair of her agents were putting the kibosh on one of his minor operations, although by the time they shut it down Adam had proven to be a bust, though he was able to keep the Initiative up and running; Finn was actually turning out to be quite adaptable.

Enough that he was contemplating adding him to his collection.

Athena had stockpiled two of her best in that flea speck town; although he didn't think it was quite fair that she had subverted rules that had stood for millennium. Zeus had ruled against him, citing the whole it was more of an unspoken agreement then an actual law. Then he added that these were perilous times for the human race and everyone should do what was necessary to ensure their continued survival.

Seeing Hercules reaction to finding out that his best friend, Iolaus, had once again been turned into a vampire and there was nothing he could do, had almost made the entire experience worth it. He had nearly pissed himself laughing so hard. Hercules had actually believed killing Aurelius all those years ago had solved the problem. Zeus had been savvy enough to realize what Hercules was planning, and managed – somehow – to get him to agree on not interfering, that sometimes, if mortals were ever going to appreciate what they had, then they needed to earn it themselves; that they had to fight for it, struggle for it, possibly even die for it so it would have meaning to them.

Because of a long standing agreement with Zeus, Odin, Ra, and dozens of other powers, the First was unable to show him Hera's mortal form, but she showed him something just as well. Gabrielle; Xena's soul mate. Who would have thought she would one day sacrifice herself to save the world, or that she would have friends powerful enough to bring her back. The fact she had gone head to head with Gloricificus amused him; that she won impressed him.

He knew he should have been paying closer attention to Gabrielle all these years. Not that Athena would let go of something she prized so much.

The First had also claimed it didn't have the forces necessary to engage Gabrielle, having lost the vast majority of It's army in a battle against her and Iolaus and a group of their followers. If they had been able to defeat Gloricificus then Ares wasn't all that surprised.

Ares didn't need an army; he didn't even need the First – the entity had served It's purpose, which he supposed was all It was after in the first place – Xena would lead his man right to Hera. That whole soul mate thing did have a few advantages. At least things he could use to his advantage. Once Hera was in his sights she was dead; more then likely Gabrielle and Xena as well. The man had a real hatred for strong women.

It had gotten to the point were war wasn't even his primary concern. Humans were actually quite efficient when it came to keeping the fires of war burning bright. It was almost a national pastime with them. He did have to dabble every now and then, when things became too stagnant.

Most of his energy and resources now went towards medicines, agriculture, metallurgy, energy, exploration. If six billion humans on one planet was good, he could just imagine hundreds of planets colonized by them. The endless warfare that would engulf them. One day he would be powerful enough to depose Zeus.

The thought made him grin, a wide smile that lit his eyes with glee.

Those plans may not come to fruition for eons yet, and without that power he didn't even contemplate the idea of crossing Zeus. Like all the Elder gods, Zeus was the personification of power. While the only things he has forbade them from doing in the past two millennium; was reveling their true identities to the mortals who dwelt on earth and the flagrant use of their powers under anything but the most dire of conditions.

Although with the rise of the mutant population Zeus had relented on the later so long as they didn't go overboard. Didn't arouse suspicion or create a negative atmosphere. _As if the mutants needed their help with that_? He didn't even have to stir that kettle to see the war brewing.

The only exception Zeus made was when Hercules wanted to make that damn television show. Of course there were always exceptions made when it came to the favorite son.

He didn't mind though. Aside from a few technical gaffes; namely him constantly being on the losing side to both his half mortal brother and traitorous lieutenant and their cohorts, he didn't have a problem with the show. It was far too campy for his taste; like an after school movie of the week, and did nothing to accurately depict life in ancient world, it gave him and the other gods something they all coveted.

A return to the public eye.

Being worshiped was being worshiped after all. The reasons for it didn't matter.

One thing about the show had taken him completely by surprise though. Lucy Lawless; it was uncanny just how much she looked and sounded like the real Warrior Princess. Her likeness was so remarkable that at first Ares thought he had misplaced her very special essence. It only took him a moment to verify who she was; all the while Herc, or Kevin as he goes by now, sat there with that arrogant, self satisfied smirk plastered across his face.

A cruel smile slipped across Ares face.

He truly wished he could be in New York when the events he set in motion came to a head, but like he told Xena he was going to keep little brother occupied. It was even Herc's own fault this time, he should have learnt by now that dad had no sense of humor.

Ares had actually been a tad worried when the old man had called a special meeting, worried until he learnt what it was for. Even if it had been a real case of amnesia he wouldn't have cared; except to find out how it benefited him. Then he had realized it did benefit him.

Zeus had been in a panic because Hercules had forgotten he was Hercules. He had so immersed himself in the persona of Kevin Sorbo that he know longer remembered he was Hercules. It was too good of an opportunity for him to pass up.

Still he really wanted to be there when Xena came head to head with Gabrielle's latest reincarnation. She was so different from that intrepid little bard she had been. He so wanted to witness the Warrior Princess' devastation when she realized she wasn't even a blip on her lover's radar. That Gabrielle could swat her aside like a gnat. Athena had a great eye when it came to seeing unrealized potential, and she was ever better at harnessing it, sculpting and molding it until it reached its zenith; its pinnacle.

Xena was going to be in for quite the surprise.

Buffy definitely wasn't the Gabrielle, Xena remembered.


	7. Chap 3: Ghost in the Ruins pt4

Chapter Three: Ghost in the Ruins – part four

Monitors of every conceivable size lined the fifteen foot high wall of the cylindrical chamber, thirty six feet circumference at the top and eighteen feet around at the bottom. Hundreds, possibly thousands of monitors display scenes from all over the world.

It was a cacophony of sound that the large man with black, metallic body standing at the control console seemed to take it all in without effort or strain, disseminating it, cataloging it for future reference.

Emotions were hard to read on his pale, almost maggot white skin and his eternally stoic expression. Vexed would come close, as would consternation, and astonishment. The enigmatic man whose name has been whispered in dark corners and back rooms for more then a century now is unfamiliar with experiencing any emotion, much less conflicting ones at the same time.

The reason for his quandary was quite simple. Somewhere along the way his immaculately conceived plan for revenge had hit a snag that was quickly turned into a hurdle of some magnitude. Each aspect of his intricate plot against Buffy Summers and her companions had been planned in meticulous detail, from implicating Hank Summers in the murder of a prominent political figure -- whose removal would further several other agendas in the coming months and years -- the insertion of William Essex had been a success, even with Parker's interference.

Instead of encountering the Summers girls in the courthouse like he had original planned, they would meet for the first at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. A minor change, more cosmetic then anything. The outcome was nearly preordained since he had only given William his human memories.

A small, almost pleasant smile graced his lips as he thought about the ironic twist of fate that had delivered a vast quantity of William's DNA into his hands nearly four years ago. His Initiative was quite good at retrieving samples of Non-human DNA.

The fact William's DNA was dead did little to disturb him and hinder his plans not one iota. What he did find fascinating was the fact that the DNA retained its supernatural enhancements once life has been returned to them. A bonus he was sure William would find quit beneficial. The child had always lived with his head either in the clouds or in his poetry book. This would surely break him out of that.

Of course Buffy Anne Summers was hardly the only person that needed to be chastised for their actions. The pieces were in place to pull the witch away, keep her distracted and teach her a lesson all at the same time. Facilitating the one meant acquiring the last link, fitting the last oddly shaped piece of the puzzle into its niche on the board.

He had been studying the data displayed on the console in front of him for quite some time attempting to determine how he could have made such a critical error.

Hank Summers, the father of both Scottt and Alex, was dead. He remembered seeing the body himself.

The only problem with what he remembered was that it didn't mesh with the data his equipment was giving him. Hank Summers, father of Scottt and Alex, and Hank Summers, father of Buffy and Dawn, were actually one and the same.

It was impossible, but DNA didn't lie and both men had identical DNA. That meant that he; either had been mistaken, an unlikely occurrence, or his memories had been altered, just as unlikely, or somebody had cloned Hank Summers.

A technology he had pioneered more then a hundred and twenty-five years ago and mastered by the turn of the century. A technology few others possess, none of whom should have the slightest interest in Hank Summers.

His desire to continue on with his plan was at odds with his desire to remain in the shadows, well out of the light. Now was not the time to make his presence known to Xavier and his lot.

With some careful revision and an extreme amount of caution his plan could go forward. Everything was in place and pulling the string now would only alert everyone to the fact that someone had been manipulating events so far.

The best he could do now was simply to allow circumstances to play out without further interference while he searched for who else had interest in Hank Summers.

"Hey," a voice called out from one of the monitors. The man lifted his head and gazed at the monitor in question. His black eyes lit with a dark desire as he gazed upon the large, dark haired young man clamped into the steel bio-bed. "I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing here, but I have friends… Powerful friends, people that are gonna miss me… People that are looking for me right now. People that are going to kick your…"

The voice muted on the monitor. He didn't need to hear anymore. It was nearly identical to what he said each and every time he woke up. It was all becoming redundant.

Still it wasn't like things wouldn't be able to run themselves for the next hour. A genuine smile of anticipation slipped across his lips as he walked from the room.

* * *

Buffy watched the proceeding argument between Murdock and Serena with feigned interest. She couldn't care about their little legal argument, her interest was in the A.D.A. Serena Southerlyn; the woman she knew, in her bones, was Detective Kate Lockley. The few times the woman looked at her, Dawn, or Isabel it was with a mixture of haughty arrogance, professional indifference and sympathy. Gone was that hard, steely eye glare she had stared down at her with three and a half years ago. There was still that same resolve in her eyes, but now it was focused in a slightly different direction.

Faith had taken off some time ago, but it looked like now it wouldn't have mattered if she stuck around or not. Either Lockley had gotten a complete mind wipe, which was possible, or Serena was Kate's exact duplicate; again, another distinct possibility.

Unlike Kate; Serena actually appeared happy, even with the semi friendly sniping taking place between her and Murdock. Buffy frowned in deep thought. If this was Kate Lockley, with some type of new pseudo life over writing her old one; Buffy felt obligated to break the spell. Well find out if there was a spell first, and then break it. Or if it was some type of evil doppelganger; find the real Kate and then kill it.

Either way she was probably going to need Angel to track down some information, like if he knew were Kate was. After all he did run a detective agency. _He runs a law office now_. She frowned at the thought; Angel had never mentioned going to Law School; she shrugged it off with a, _probably has lots of lawyers working for him and he probably hires real detectives when he needs stuff detected, or he keeps them on staff_.

Buffy noticed the ruggedly handsome man as he slipped by Willow and Wood as the pair made their way out the door. Something, about him reminded Buffy of a hayseed, a slick and polished hayseed. With his shock of feather light, dirty blond hair, liquid blue eyes, and that sort of, aw shucks, gait of his.

"Serena," he called out with a friendly wave.

The blonde turned towards him a smile already lighting her attractive face. "Lindsey," she whispered in happy surprise. "What are you doing in New York?" She asked embracing him in a friendly hug.

Lindsey stepped back holding her at arms length for a moment taking her in. "I needed a break from the bustle of L.A."

"So you came to New York?"

He shrugged ruefully at her question before he answered saying, "Went home for a while, but after living in L.A. for so long I never felt comfortable. Kind of like putting shoes on that are two sizes too small."

Serena nodded with understanding. "Mathew Murdock this is Lindsey McDonald."

Mat extended his hand to the halfway point between them. "Pleasure to meet you," Mat said. If he could put a name to the aroma wafting off Lindsey it would be smugness. The man hadn't lied, but he wasn't what Mat would call honest.

Another little mental note was ticked off inside Buffy's brain about Murdock and his uncanny ability.

For a brief moment Lindsey looked at the hand and wondered how he had done that. He filed it away; something he could check into later. "Your reputation precedes you."

Mat frowned slightly. It wasn't like he took a lot of high profiled cases.

"I heard you turned down a retainer from Wilson Fisk," Lindsey explained sensing Murdock's confusion. Besides he couldn't help letting the man know he had contacts in New York.

Serena seemed genuinely shocked as she stared at Mat. It was the kind of opportunity every attorney dreamed of, the one that could literally launch a career. "You and Nelson could have finally…"

"I told you before Serena," Mat started coldly, cutting her off before she could build up a head of steam. His glare as he focused in on her became even more intense. "I don't defend criminals."

"If you don't mind my saying," Lindsey began cautiously. "But that seems to be a rather small minded view."

Mat's gaze trained on him. "Everybody has to do what's right for them," he said coldly. "If you'll excuse me?" His cane slapped sharply into Lindsey's shin as Mat stepped between the pair.

For a moment Lindsey watched the man walk away. "What was that about?"

Serena exhaled slowly as she watched Murdock leave the courtroom. "Mat's father was a small time prizefighter… He was on a comeback, rising fast when a local mafia boss told him to take a dive. He refused and that night he was killed."

"How do you know all that?" Lindsey asked.

A soft, sad smile split her lips as she remembered a small snippet of her childhood. Her father had been a beat cop for more then thirty, working extra shifts whenever he could so he could sock away enough money to put her through the first few years of collage, as it turned out her grades were exceptional; enough to get her full scholarship. Her parents had quite the nest egg by retirement age rolled around. "My dad. He knew just about every obscure fact of any boxer that ever managed to get himself ranked. He talked about Murdock a lot when he learnt I was attending the same school as his son Mat; even if he was three years ahead of me. Dad was always surprised with the fact that Murdock rededicated himself after the accident that took Mat's sight. He was a changed man." She looked after Mat as he made his way smoothly up the aisle, maybe just a little too smoothly. At times he just seemed to avoid people before he should. With a tiny shake of her head she dismissed the absurd thought; it was simply Mat being Mat, the way he always had been. "I never heard him talk about his life before the accident," she concluded with a little shrug.

There was another fact she remembered from her father's little anecdotes. His nickname had been Dare Devil. She knew it was impossible; there was no way straight lace, stiff as a board Mathew Murdock, blind attorney at law, was the costume vigilante Dare Devil.

Still the thought lingered in her head.

Willow hung up her cell phone, her face was a pale white, almost like a fade sheet. Numbly she approached her best friend, she placed a shaky hand on Buffy's shoulder as she leaned in and whispered, "I need to go."

Buffy turned at the distress in Willow's voice. "What happened? Is Kennedy all right?"

"Kennedy's fine," Willow said with a shallow nod.

"What did Giles want?"

Willow looked at Buffy with deep confusion filling her eyes and face. "Xander arrived at the Hyperion a little while ago."

Now it was Buffy's turn to look confused. While he had told them he was going to take a break from the slaying and world savage, he had promised he was going to check in with them from time to time.

"Xander's back?" Dawn questioned as her, Isabel, and Wood joined them. "That's good right?" Willow gave an abbreviated shake of her head. "That's not good?"

"He has both eyes and Anya's with him," she said quite deliberately.

Isobel could sense everyone's distress at Willow's announcement. It was as if a weight was suddenly being pressed down upon them. Instinctively she placed her hands upon her extended belly and gently rubbed her abdomen.

"Robin," Buffy said as she turned to the shaven headed black man standing just behind Isobel. "Can you get Willow to the airport?"

Wood nodded without pause. "Can you let Faith know I won't be back until late?"

"I'll take care of it," Buffy assured him.

* * *

Faith had gone up several flights of stairs; found an unused room and now stood facing the man she had first seen in the court room. Some how he had managed to track her to this room.

She could sense something decidedly dangerous about the man; not like a vampire or demon. Once she had visited a zoo. Instinctively she had been drawn towards the predators; the beers, wolves… The really big cats.

It was the same type of feeling only more so.

Her heart was pounding; not in fear, but excitement. Thoughts were fuzzy as the blood rushed from her brain into a more southerly region of her anatomy.

Faith knew she was aroused, that being in this man's presence had her riled up. It was almost like she had spent the night slaying and was now in need of relief.

She wondered if she would be having this problem if Robin was actually able to satisfy her. It wasn't really his fault, she was a slayer, and she had yet to find a man – and only a few women – capable of satisfying her. Her relationship with Wood was nice, comfortable and while the sex wasn't mind blowing, or earth shattering and it definitely didn't shake the pillars of heaven it was pleasant enough.

Logan sniffed the air as he stared at her. Faith saw his pupils dilate. "Who are you?" He questioned harshly. Though Faith thought it was more his natural tone of voice and not any hostility.

"Faith," she answered taking a step forward. She could feel herself being drawn to him; like a piece of steel shot pulled by a magnet.

For the first time in a long time Faith felt afraid. She knew what was about to happen and fought against it. To no real effect. "We're not animals," she stated simply.

Logan shook his head as he matched her step. "Human beings an animal," he replied clinically.

Faith took another step closer to him, bringing her within arm's reach. "We don't have to do this," she said deliberately.

"No, we don't," Logan agreed. Faith could hear the strain in his voice.

For the first time she realized that he was fighting this just as hard as she was and with as little success. His body quivered with the strain of holding himself in reign.

Taking a deep breath Faith calmed herself; not in resignation but in acceptance. The man was human not some kind of half breed demon; at least her slayer sense wasn't screaming at her like it did when she was in the presence of a demon.

He was also controlling himself. He wasn't just giving in to his wants and desires: like a savage beast; wasn't trying to force himself on her.

She could feel his breath; smell the rot gut whisky, the aroma of cheap cigars mingled with his natural scent. It was sweat and pungent at the same time, but not an unpleasant fragrance. She could hear his heart thudding rapidly, imagined she could hear the blood rushing in his veins, but that was probably her own blood she heard pounding in her ears.

Faith stepped forward placing her hand upon his check, the rough stubble pricked at her palm. Logan twisted his head as he leaned into her touch as he sniffed her wrist inhaling her scent; the intoxicating fragrance that filled his nostrils. She shivered in anticipation and said. "We don't"

* * *

Finding the motorcycle Logan had left for them was easy. It was right where he said it would be. Unlike Scott's custom-built motorcycle this was a massive bike built more for power then speed.

Scott looked at the motorcycle as if he were staring at a work of art. He walked around the Harley slowly, running his right fingertips over the leather, chrome, and steel.

Jean exhaled as she gave her head an imperceptible shake. Scott was still being stubborn about seeing Hank. She didn't blame him and she wasn't pressuring him, but it was frustrating the way he was ignoring the situation.

"I wonder were Logan got his hands on a bike like this?" Scott murmured as he picked up a pair of helmets.

"You probably don't want to know," Jean answered taking the helmet from Scott.

Scott gave Jean a dubious look as he said, "You don't think Logan?"

Jean shrugged as she said, "You know Logan."

"No way he'd bring a stolen motorcycle here," Scott said confidently.

Jean nodded as she slipped the helmet on. "You're probably right. Logan would never do anything so, reckless."

"Of course he wouldn't," Scott agreed putting his helmet on. "Specially not when he's giving the bike to somebody else."

Scott got on the motorcycle and started it with ease. Jean slid on the bike behind him and settled herself in for what she hoped was an uneventful commute back to the school.

The drive through the parking garage was like a leisurely stroll through an open field unmindful of the thunder storm building on the horizon.

They reached ground level in short order without incident; until the police siren flashed and an unmarked cruiser pulled out in front of them at the end of the aisle.

Scott pulled the bike to a stop as the near side door opened and the driver exited the dark blue sedan. "Turn off the motorcycle and step away from the vehicle," the man wearing an immaculate dark brown suit said.

Jean got off the motorcycle gracefully as Scott shut the machine down. "_Still Logan wouldn't bring a stolen motorcycle into the Courthouse parking garage_?" Jean asked in Scott's mind as she removed her helmet.

* * *

The air had an odor of cleanliness that Xander had never experienced before; not even hospitals ever smelt this clean. There was always that antiseptic smell; bleach filling the air.

There was no odor in this room; not even himself. It was like something was sterilizing the oddly octagonal shaped room. It reminded Xander of a honeycomb; so much so it made him feel like he was inside a giant, metallic beehive.

Xander could see several other black metal beds similar to what he was lying on throughout the chamber despite not being able to move his head. He couldn't move any part of his body actually, except for his mouth, but if anybody had been listening they were inexplicably immune to his very specialized style of taunting.

There was nothing holding him to the table; no clamps, straps, shackles, or anything like that, but the youth could definitely feel something keeping him from moving. It was like his body was under some sort of paralysis.

Xander wracked his brain trying to remember all the witches and warlocks he has angered over the years. He couldn't remember that many, a lot of things he knew he should have remembered; seemed hazy, indistinct.

He heard a soft hiss to his right, like a pneumatic door opening. He shifted his eyes but couldn't see any more. Then he paused and closed both eyes. Opening his right eye he was able to see that section of the chamber just fine, but not quite so much as before. He closed his right eye and opened his left eye.

He shrieked trying to jump backwards only he couldn't move. Standing in front of him was a creature, a being like none he had ever seen before. He quickly closed both eyes shut. Tried to count to ten, but cracked them open just a breadth, and let out a relived breathe when he didn't see the man that had been there only moments earlier and he opened his eyes all the way.

"Jesus… Fuck, what the hell's wrong with you?" _Vampires, demons, praying mantis teachers, a hell-goddess, and oh yeah, being friends with a slayer for the last seven years. Really great times we had there, what with the near death experiences every other week_. "Freak out over one pasty faced boogeyman."

"An apt, if rather inaccurate description," a heavy, somber voice said from somewhere beyond the corner of his eyes. "While I have no doubt, been the cause of many nightmares throughout the years, I am not the boogeyman."

"Yeah, well… You sure as hell ain't the Easter Bunny." Xander snapped taking an instant dislike to the man's tone of voice; his too crisp, very clean accent. Once again Xander strained against what was holding him.

"Rather impressive," The voice droned on. "I must admit I was surprised by the marks your initial test provided me with…"

"Test? What test? What the hell are you talking about? I didn't take…"

"Silence," the voice commanded.

Xander was about to tell him where he could shove his, silence! He opened his mouth to do so but his mouth wouldn't move.

"The youth today, so rude, interrupting their betters when they are speaking." The man moved back into Xander's field of vision. His hair was as black as his armor. His cape flared up and outward at his shoulders before dropping to his knees in tattered shreds. His face was so pale it made milk seem dark. "Perhaps next it happens I'll simply remove the offending appendage." He turned to face Xander, his dark eyes were emotionless, removing his tongue meant nothing to him. It would just be another chore.

Xander kept his mouth shut, not even making the attempt to speak. It seemed to satisfy the man as he nodded and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back as he took two strides.

"Especially considering the obese shape your body was in." Xander quickly shifted his gaze down the length of his body and easily noticed the layer of fat was gone. He wasn't the skinny geek he had been in high school, but he wasn't some steroid shooting muscle bound freak either. "That meant the secret to your test results would have to live within your DNA. My hypothesis however was incorrect; you don't even possess a latent X-gene."

He turned again, a slight shifting of his upper torso; shoulders and hand. "Complete homo-sapien; not even rudimentary genetic engineering. Waste product. Nothing more.

"It still, however, did not explain your more then human test ratings. Fortunately there are many paths one such as myself can fallow to gain the answers I sought. If they weren't in your DNA, it simply meant I would have to search your mind.

"And what a cesspit of a mind you have." The smile on his face was friendly, as if he had found a kindred spirit. "Who knew that the human body absorbs mystical energy; every vampire imparted just a sliver of its power when it is destroyed, passed on to anybody in their area. A demon; such as the Judge or the Mayor, not to mention Glory; god or not, release, to you mind at least, an unimaginable amount of mystical energy. Did you know that DNA retained an enhancement, a pity that you never trained with the slayer after you had been imbued with the essence of the Hyena Spirit or the combination spell. If you had…"

He left the implication hanging there and Xander snorted, sucking air through his nose. The man arched an eyebrow at him. "You wish to say something?"

"Are you insane? Training with Buffy? She would have kicked my…"

"Sshhh," he whispered and instantly Xander was silent once again. "Just how many over weight, beer swilling construction workers do you know that can fight a vampire to a stand still without their memories? How many people stay conscious after being hit in the head with a frying pan being wielded by a slayer? A slayer that has been active for nearly seven years now, six at the time. Quite possibly the strongest slayer in recorded history."

"Who are you? What do you want?"

The pair of questions seemed to startle him. He frowned marginally, then shrugged. "Most people call me sinister." There was a note of intense menace in his voice. "You can call me Mister Sinister."

Xander couldn't help himself as he asked, "What no Dr. Evil, or a little mini me running around?"

Sinister smirked at him. "No, although there is a full size you, actually an improved you, running around. Keeping your friends occupied. Insuring that nobody comes looking for you."

A confused expression furrows Xander's brow. "Why? Why would you do something like this? I don't know you."

"No, you don't know me." He agreed pleasantly, "but I do believe you know my brother…"

"Buddy, if I ever meet one of your relatives I'm pretty sure I'd remember it," Xander answered.

"William."

Xander would have shaken his head if he could have moved. He had to settle himself to simply say, "Never heard of him."

Sinister nodded thoughtfully as he took several steps away from Xander at a slight angle. The table Xander was lying on rose soundlessly to an upright position. Once again Xander wondered what was holding him in place.

The megalomaniac turned back to face Xander, looking the young man in the eyes. "I'm going to tell you a story. A simple story, and true. If any of this sounds familiar, please stop me.

"When I was a young man, around your age and nearly as human," the word was said with a touch of disgust, "my father, a minor lord in the British court married the daughter of a prosperous merchant; a twenty-five year old spinster." He shrugged dismissively as he said, "It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. The child they conceived was something of a surprise to everyone.

"In that age, when medicine still consisted of hedge doctors; leaches, bleedings, drilling holes in the patient's head, and exorcisms; forty was considered old and my father was nearly fifty. He understood the reality of the situation, that in all likelihood he wouldn't see his child grow up.

"He asked me, ordered me actually, to take care of his child after his death. I of course had far more important matters to attend to, but I did keep track of young William. A brilliant child, even if he did possess a soft woman's heart and spent more time living in his mind then in the real world. He was an extremely sensitive child, too much so to survive polite society.

"He was in his early twenties when he had his illusions shattered by the woman of his dreams. He stormed from the gathering with his dreams, his very life in ruins. I had planned on gathering William in a few days, give his anger a chance to simmer, but fate had other plans.

"That night William literally ran into what was to become his future, Drusilla, Darla, and Angel."

"Spike," Xander breathed out slowly.

Sinister smiled at Xander and said, "Ah, so you do know William. I thought you would."

"Look I have no idea what Spike told you, but he's a vampire. Evil, plus he hates my guts. He'd say anything to put me in a bad light."

Sinister took a casual step forward. "Rest assured Alexander. I have never spoken to William, and while he lived I was willing to let him settle his debts. As he saw fit. Unfortunately for you, William no longer lives so the debt is now mine to collect."

"What debt?" Xander demanded; his anger temporally overriding his fear. "I didn't owe Spike…"

"Quite." And once again Xander couldn't speak. "The debt you owe has nothing to do with money, but is one of humiliation, degradation." Xander swallowed hard. He had a decisively sinking feeling in his stomach. "Three and a half years he dwelt amongst you, fought at your side, protected you, your town, your friends and how did you repay him. Treat him with respect? Thank him? Show your gratitude in any way? Or did you simply pull him out when you needed help killing something and then shove him back into the dark hole you kept him in, unless perhaps it was to baby-sit the slayers mystical sister while you and your friends plotted her resurrection. With friends like you it's no wonder she committed suicide when she had the chance. Dieing a hero, saving her sister, the entire world. Not a bad way to go if you get the chance to chose."

The smile Sinister showed Xander was a bare flashing of his teeth. "Don't worry Alexander we are going to have many conversations in the days to come. Eventually you will come to see things my way."


	8. Chap 4: Anything but Ordinary

Chapter Five: Anything But Ordinary

Scott found the officer's hand on his elbow to be very intrusive. He didn't have much to complain about, he wasn't under arrest; they simply needed to verify his story and wanted him to stick around. Somewhere along the way Jean had managed to disappear. Scott wasn't sure if he liked the implications, especially once he glimpsed his destination.

Five officers guarded the only door in this corridor. It was reserved for special prisoners, those that couldn't be held in the general population for any number of reasons. They were relaxed, yet poised almost weary, as if they anticipated the some sort of commotion.

It was the room Scott was being led to. He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight. _What did you do Jean_? He knew the answer, even if he didn't want to admit it. Her powers had been growing almost exponentially, taking quantum strides over the past several months; ever since Magneto and the Statue of Liberty and again at Alkida Lake.

It had been a close call, they almost didn't make it. She had used her telekinetic power to funnel the on rushing water around the Blackbird. It was like squeezing a bar of soap in a massive fist. The lake was the fist and the Blackbird the soap. The strain on Jean left her unconscious for the better part of a week. The Blackbird suffered major damage, but was still flight worthy and got them cross country to the Nation's capital. They had reached the president in time, gave him reason to hope.

When Jean had finally woken up, there had been a subtle difference in her. She was much freer with her power, didn't tire as quickly, and recovered much faster. It was odd seeing her so uninhibited.

He knew Charles was worried about her, whether she would control the power or it her.

Scott didn't concern himself with that.

It was Jean and that was all that mattered. He loved her more then life itself and would do whatever he needed to, to prove that every single day.

"Rigo," One of the five greeted his escort as the pair came close. "What you got there?"

Rigo shrugged at the question, "Need to hold onto this dweeb until we can verify his story."

"Toss 'em in one of the holding pens," Marcus suggested irritably. These assignments always grated on him. Giving special treatment to prisoners. They were murders, rapist, thugs, and thieves, and deserved whatever happened to them.

"They're full up," Rigo answered. "Shouldn't be more then half an hour. Who you got in there anyway?"

"You don't know?"

Rigo shook his head as he said, "Someone special?"

"You're kidding me right?" The first guard laughed. He crossed the hall with an air of leisure, he cocked his head at the thick, metal gray door. "We got ourselves a celebrity. This is none other then Hank Summers."

"Ain't this a coincident? We got Scott Summers here."

"Hmm," Kelly grunted. "Think there might be some kind of relation?"

Marcus glared at Scott as he said, "Wouldn't surprise me? Way I hear it guy's daughter burnt down her high school gym. Second school blew up during her graduation… Guess she wanted to go out with a bang."

Scott tried to keep his expression neutral; it was hard considering how much the man's voice grated on him. The fact he just meant him didn't bode well. The only other person who irritated him this much with even less exposure was Logan.

"What about it?" Rigo pushed.

"Hell," The third said. He looked Scott up and down, nothing cruel or belligerently, simply giving him the once over. "Doesn't look like much. Go ahead."

Marcus' grimace hardened even more. If he were in charge then Summers, the pair of them, would be in general holding. See how they held up when the kid gloves were taken off. Coddling criminals did nothing but set a bad example.

He was a grizzled veteran of nearly thirty years service, the white stubble decorating his chin had more in common with steel shavings then the peach fuzz he tried cultivating as a teenager. His gray eyes were shadowed with bitter experience.

As a teenager he had marched alongside the closest thing to a saint mankind has ever known, Martin Luthor King. That was saying something for a Mississippi hick with a devout Catholic upbringing. His first love, Mary Turner, the girl he married, the mother of his five children, god rest her soul, was a colored girl from the poor side of town; not that there was a rich side.

When his father discovered his little secret, he tossed him out of the house once it became obvious his feelings weren't going to change no matter how sever the beating.

He was as cynical as an old man as he was idealistic in his youth. The years hadn't been kind to him, disappointment and betrayal had smelted a bitter blade and used it to carved the naiveté from his eyes. It started with King's assassination and kept growing with each passing year. People still said all the right words, Peace and equality for everyone, but their tone, so long as my piece of equality is greater then yours, spat in the face of King's dream, and their actions would bury it under a mountain of kindling that would set the blaze for the next great race riot.

His only wish remaining was to be dead a good fifty years before that came to pass. With everyday that drifted by that was looking less and less likely.

Senator Frank McCellum wasn't King, but he was the closest that's come along in the past thirty years. And scum like Summers, with their hatred and bigotry and small minded pettiness, who couldn't stand seeing something beautiful being built had to tear it down, deface it, put a torch to it.

Marcus grabbed hold of the handle and twisted. With a sour sneer he pushed open the door. "Your suite."

"Thanks," Scott answered graciously. He stepped past Marcus, the slight grin touched nothing but his lips, and into the room beyond. The door snapped closed with the sound of finality.

Just like that, he was in a room with his father for the first time in memory. He looked at the man, and for one of the few moments in his life, didn't know what to do next. It was as if Logan's adamantium laced knuckles made solid contact with his chin and his head swam in a sea of molasses.

The man sitting in front of him looked old, far older then his memories suggested. Then again close to thirty years had passed since the last time he has seen Hank Summers, he had to be closing in on sixty, but that wasn't what made him old.

Physically he didn't look a day over forty, there were a few lines creasing his face and his hair retained its natural color… Although that could be chemically achieved.

It was in his eyes that his true age could be seen. They were haggard, haunted by ghost he couldn't stop seeing.

Gray orbs settled on Scott, curiosity wrapped in weariness. There was something oddly familiar about the man though he doesn't recall ever setting eyes on him before. He was tall, but from the perspective of a man that didn't quite stand five foot eight, anything close to six feet was nearly giant stature.

The way he stood screamed military; stiff back yet loose, relaxed somehow coiled and ready to act or react. His cheek twitched slightly, a sure sign of stress, but his eyes were hidden behind a stylish pair of red sunglasses.

When the door closed behind Scott, Hank didn't lower his guard for a moment. With every day that passed he expected some sort of retaliation from the mutant community, and given their various powers and abilities, he didn't think a few police officers and some stone walls would stop them.

Not being able to see his eyes didn't stop the feeling that he was being carved into little pieces. The glare was that intense. He found it damn irritating. Not being able to look him in the eye. The way he just continued to stare at him.

"Why?" Scott's soft question was like a screech shouted into the silence. Xavier told him everything he gleaned from his father's mind; there was nothing new the man could tell him. He might know more about Hank Summers then Hank Summers did.

Hank tensed even more. He stood up saying, "I don't know how you got pass my… Doesn't matter?" The man was more then half his age, looked to be in extremely good shape. There was no doubt in Hank's mind that this kid could kick his ass.

"You think I'm scum… That I ought to be strung up from the nearest lamp post, but I didn't kill that Senator guy. Most of the time I can't even remember his name so why would I want him dead. Far as I'm concerned, mutants are as human as anybody else. I ain't got any probl—"

"Why did you leave?" There was definitely a harsh under current cutting through Scott's tone. He should just stand off to the side, not say a word, and wait patiently, silently to be let go. They would be able to confirm his story quickly enough.

Only he needed to know. Needed to hear it from the man himself. In his own words. In his voice. "What—"

"Scott," Hank whispered starring hard at the young man standing in front of him. Words vanished from his vocabulary; the entire English language disappeared in a puff of smoke as he tried to give voice to the turbulent emotions crushing through him with thunderous upheaval. He looked so different from what he had imagined, all grown up when he expected to see a boy. It was stupid bordering on insipid, he knew that, but it didn't stop the fantasy that he would find Scott exactly how he left him. He was older then Buffy, but still…

His hair had darkened, was now a deep brown compared to the sandy colored he had last seen. He looked so much like his mother, not feminine…

"Scotty," his voice was louder, more sure, with more raw emotion bubbling over the edge, barely contained. "Scotty," he said again.

Scott clenched his jaw. Fought to keep his own emotions held in check. The last thing he was going to do was have an emotional breakdown right now. He was determined to maintain his composure, even if it killed him.

Suddenly, Scott wasn't sure how, but Hank crashed into him, arms wrapped around him, crushed him in an incredible tight embrace. "God," his voice thick, the word was nearly indecipherable. "I've looked so long. Thought I was losing my mind, that I imagined you." His grip tightened even more. "I ain't ever gonna let you out of my sight again. Never."

For a moment the words stopped and the two men stood there, not quite in the middle of the room, a large conference table to their side. One holding on to the other as if he were the greatest dream made reality. A reality that could be snatch away from him on whatever cruel and fickle whim fate had in store. The other simply held onto his resolve, his determination as if they were the final tufts of grass keeping him from plunging thousands of feet into a black swirling mass of the unknown.

After a time, a short amount but one that stretched on far longer, Hank pulled back holding Scott out at arms length as he tried to memorize every detail of him. The smile that split his face in two would have looked far more appropriate on a madman.

"I can't believe you're here, really here. My god it's been…"

His eyes lost their focus and his face slackened losing its animation, its emotions. It passed in an instant. Too fast to be seen by the unmindful eye, but Scott had been watching him closely and didn't miss it. _Jesus_! _Fuck_! He could hardly believe the outrage he felt, had thought he was pass caring about this man. Despite the emotion he still managed to keep his features schooled to stillness. _Whatever was done to him, it's still there_.

"… You've grown so much. Let me get a good look at you." He looked him over, his eyes savoring every last detail. "I can't believe how much you look like Felecia."

"I look like mom?"

Hank nodded as he said, "More like her father, Allen. You've got his face, not as harsh though. The color of your hair is almost an exact match." He reached for the ruby quartz glasses covering Scott's eyes. "Let's get rid of these ridiculous looking things and I can get a decent look at all of you."

"No!" Scott snarled savagely as he slapped Hank's hand away.

"What? What is it?"

"I can never take these glasses off," Scott admitted softly.

"Why?" He asked. It was a cautious word. "What's wrong with you?"

Scott grimaced and said, "Nothings wrong with me." He took a breath and exhaled. It didn't help him relax. He had never actually had to tell anyone he was a mutant, at Xavier's it was common knowledge and he didn't have any friends outside of the school. There was nothing to do except open his mouth and say, "I'm a mutant."

Hank blinked at the comment. It certainly wasn't the answer he expected. He thought there was something wrong, some type of scaring or disfiguration.

A mutant though. That had come out of nowhere. Almost as far out of nowhere as Buffy and her secrets. Mutants were known; vampires, slayers, demons, and all things supernatural, weren't.

"Is that all?" Hank asked after a brief pause. "I thought there was something wrong."

"It's uncontrollable."

"What is?"

"My optic nerves tap into an alternate dimension. When I open my eyes massive amounts of pressurized force are released. The only thing capable of containing my optic blast is the synthesized ruby quartz laced into my glasses. Without them, I'd turn this building to rubble."

Hank's face sagged as the implications hit him. His son's eyes were connected to a completely different dimension. Suddenly he wondered what Dawn; sweet, innocent Dawn was hiding from him. Scott could level a sky scraper with a glance; Buffy fought vampires and averted apocalypses on a bi-annual basis. He didn't even want to contemplate the possibilities. Mainly because he wasn't smart enough to envision all of them. "I have one screwed up family."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Faith squinted as she stepped out of the harsh New York sun field and into the subdued ambience of the restaurant she had followed Lockley and Lindsey into. Fortunately for her, her eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness. Slayer powers were a handy thing to have.

The Restaurant, whatever it's name; was the sort of place people like her never dreamed of entering. This was where all the well paid professionals went.

It was easy to pick out the doctors and the lawyers, the accountants, stock brokers, ad execs, and bankers, from people like her. It was simple because there weren't other people like her in here. Not that anybody here was paying her the slightest attention

She wouldn't be here if she hadn't spotted Lindsey schmoozing Lockley out of the courthouse. That just didn't play on the level in her book. Lindsey left a trail that made slime seem like scented bath water, the type of scum Lockley used to put behind bars.

They had been crossing the lobby of the courthouse as she made her way down the stairs, mingled in amongst all the other sheep. It was slow going after her morning activities, she's never felt so satisfied in her life; no man has ever managed to satiate her hunger before. It was unbelievable.

Most of the time, she would have to finish herself off; after she tossed the guy to the curb. Other times she would be so frustrated she'd go out and find something that needed killing and just ended up even more frustrated.

Now, she understood what Buffy kept going on about, when she explained what sex with Spike had been like. Granted the guy hadn't been an undead, soulless demon, she didn't think he was a soulless demon anyway. Conversation, meaningful dialogue at any rate, didn't pop up during their forty-five minute session in the Judges chambers.

Bonus points for not being undead though.

With a carefree swagger, that came from knowing you were untouchable, that wherever you went, you were the toughest, baddest person, that when people messed with you, they did so at their own peril, Faith made her way to the long wrap around bar. It was made from a dark mahogany with plush, high backed stools evenly spaced in front of the rich wood. They were close enough to encourage fraternization among the patrons, but not so close as to make people feel they were being crowded.

The bartender, a mid thirty year old, barrel chested man, smirked in a knowing way at her approach. He had a large head, but his face, especially his cheeks, were thin. His arms, neck, and shoulders were thick, roped with heavy muscles. "What can I get for you?"

"Whiskey," Faith answered with the cocky assurance of somebody who is going to get exactly what she wants. "Straight up. Put it in one of those fancy, wide bottom glasses and make sure you fill it to the brim."

"Sure thing, just as soon as I see some ID," he sounds as if he expected her to turn around and go away.

Faith smiled at him, it was a smile meant to ease tension, but with Faith's dark, smoldering eyes, caused the man to frown. Faith crocked a finger, gesturing him closer. With a bit of hesitancy he did so.

"You look like a smart guy," Faith began in a too sweet voice. It dripped with venomous honey. Slowly, with an unspoken sensual promise her right hand took hold of his black tie, it felt like silk and her fingers began to slowly massage it, gently knead it between her skilled and nimble fingers.

He swallowed, tried to work the moisture back into his mouth at the blatant overture. It didn't do him any good.

At times Faith absolutely despised the fact she still looked so young. The fact she had only turned twenty a few months before her early release and was still half a year away from reaching twenty-one was one she easily ignored.

With swift savagery Faith twined the silken cord around her small fist and jerked, pulling Jacob toward her. He managed to get his hands under him, bracing them on the bar, and brought his forward momentum to a grinding halt. At least he thought he had. He began to doubt his assessment after a few moments of pushing back as hard as he could. He didn't budge and there wasn't even the slightest strain on her face. She just continued to smile up at him, only now there was a predatory gleam in her eyes, or maybe it had been there all along and he had simply been too blind to see it.

"Now I'm just wondering why, for such a smart guy, you'd want to go and make this harder then it needs to be?"

"Enjoying yourself Faith?" Lindsey asked as he slid into the space next to her.

Faith shrugged indifferently as she said, "Passably so. You know how it is, girl's gotta get her kicks somehow."

Lindsey smiled at her laughing silently, a bemused chuckle. He had always found Faith's straight forward approach, her honesty and indifferent, let the cards fall where they may attitude, to be quite refreshing. In the high pressure world of Wolfram & Hart, with the intrigue, maneuvering, and backstabbing Faith was quite easy to be around. Her straight forward, unabashed approach toward dealing with the world left little doubt about where one stood with her.

You never relaxed around her, never let your guard down because the girl was deadly dangerous and her moods often shifted. Handling Faith was like handling a rattlesnake. If you were careful you just might walk away unscathed. If not…

"Tell you what," he said reaching into his pocket, "you let Jacob here go and he'll fetch you that drink you wanted." He placed a bill on the counter and slid it across the polished surface. "My treat."

Faith's eyes nearly popped out of her skull when she spotted the large denomination. She managed to maintain her composer, but it was hard. "In that case make it a double and the good stuff, Dess-something other. The one with that there commercial."

Jacob still looked doubtful even though his hand rested over the thousand dollar bill. "Go ahead Jacob," Lindsey encouraged. "If you get in trouble I'll represent you myself."

With that Jacob quickly left the pair.

"And the devil whispered words with a honeyed tongue," Faith spoke with quite conviction.

Lindsey practically gushed as he said, "I'm flattered you think so highly of me, I'm hardly worthy of such lofty praise. I'm nothing but a simple mouthpiece these days."

"There's hardly anything simple about you." Faith managed to keep the growl out of her voice, barely, but she did manage it.

"As much fun as this barb and jab session could be Faith, I doubt if you being here is much of a coincident. So…?"

Faith waited as Jacob poured her drinks. Of the money Lindsey had given him there was no sign, and since he hadn't been anywhere near the cash register she was confident none of it would find its way to the till. As soon as he was done filling the first glass, Faith picked up the large sifter and threw the fiery liquid down in a single swallow. She sighed in deep contentment. "That there was some real fine shit, way better then the rot gut most of my dates buy me."

"Faith," Lindsey admonished gently. "You're supposed to sip fine whiskey."

"Slayer metabolism, Lindsey. That was a sip." She twisted her head around, just enough to glance at Lockley out of the corner of her eyes.

"Ah," Lindsey breathed out. "So that's what you're here for."

"I don't know what you've done to Lockley—"

"Kate? It's incredible, isn't it?"

His easy admission brought Faith up short. She had expected him to deny it, to squirm and wiggle as he lied to her. Honesty hadn't even crossed her mind as an option. "You're not even gonna try to convince me?"

With a shrug Lindsey said, "To what end? You obviously know the truth, suspect it at any rate."

Faith set her shoulders, determination crystallized in her eyes, quickly spread throughout her face, transforming her smoldering beauty into a mask of righteous anger. Lindsey's hand on her forearm wasn't an obstacle; she could have broken free with little effort. The single word he spoke, "Don't," with such desperation that she actually felt her resolve quickly evaporate. She wasn't sure what, if anything, she could do that would break the spell.

"You'll destroy a good person," he whispered too low for anyone but her to hear.

Cold, merciless eyes pinned Lindsey to his seat as Faith turned on him. "You've already done that," she hissed.

"Me?" Lindsey said in genuine surprise. He shook his head dismissively as he said, "You're barking up the wrong tree on that one." He picked up Faith's second glass of whiskey and took a sip. "I was as surprised as anyone when I get this package with instructions to memorize—"

"If you didn't do it…?"

Lindsey nodded toward Serena and said, "She did."

"You're full of it. The lady I knew—"

"The lady you knew fell a long way after you breezed through town. Did you know she tried to commit suicide?" He paused a second, "Sorry, that she did commit suicide, with Angel standing in the doorway with that annoying little barrier keeping him out. He was forced to stand there, watching helplessly as she died." He shrugged a little as he added, "At least that's the way I heard."

"Still doesn't explain…"

"I know," Lindsey agreed. "That's why I did a bit of digging. Appears the brood master perform CPR, brought her back from the great beyond, all very melodramatic. Or so I've been told. Anyway, seems her father was a bag man for some very unsavory individuals, the type you tend to run across every now and then. The man had accumulated quite a lot of dirt on the people he moonlighted for.

"One way or another," he shrugged a small hitch of his shoulders as he took another sip of the whisky, "all that juicy information made its way into Lockley's hands. She found out who would pay a small fortune, I mean enough to live like a king for the rest of your life, only she didn't want money. She wanted this, what her father wanted for her—"

"Bull," Faith growled, but there was little conviction in the solitary word.

"Look at her Faith, really look. She's happy here, happier then she ever was in Los Angeles. She's doing what she always loved, putting the bad guys in prison and her life isn't crumbling around her-"

"And let me guess," Faith interrupted. "Nobody's supposed to remember her."

"Something like that," Lindsey agreed. "Angel and his crew think she died, same with the precinct house."

"Yet me, you, and Buffy all remember her?" Faith pointed out.

Lindsey shrugged again, "One of the benefits of working for Wolfram and Hart, there's this sort of blanket protection on all employees. The higher your position, so on and so forth. I'm sure you get the gist."

Faith nodded impatiently and said, "Still doesn't explain Buffy and me?"

"I got nothing for you," Lindsey admitted. "Maybe it's because your slayers? Gives you some kind of natural protection maybe."

A small frown creased Faith's mouth. It was plausible; she might have bought it if not for Dawn and all the implanted memories. She was glad Buffy had told her about Glory and the Key and the monks.

"You might not have been given a very high priority, life sentence and all. Plus New York, California. I was sure surprised as all hell to see the pair of you out here? Can't imagine anybody expected a Summers to get themselves arrested for murder in the Big Apple, let alone the estranged father of the legendary Buffy Summers. That's causing quite a stir in certain circles. Nothing serious, but if you know how to listen—"

"And you know how to listen?"

Lindsey smiled at her. It made him look so young, so innocent. Before he could say anything though a new presence intruded upon their isolation. Faith turned her head the moment she sensed Lockley. The blonde was as striking as Faith remembered, but didn't appear to be as harried. There was far less tension in her face, and she seemed to possess more poise then Faith recalled.

Not that Lockley wasn't poised, but that was more on the balls of her feet, always ready to react and move in whatever direction she needed to go. This was more the set of her shoulders, a sort of natural serenity about her. A feeling that nothing could disrupt her idyllic world.

It was the sort of look Faith saw on plenty of faces. Normally those that had absolutely no idea about anything supernatural.

The Scrutinizing, appreciative gaze that meandered over her body wasn't one Faith expected from Lockley. It wasn't blatant, if not for her slayer enhanced senses, Faith never would have noticed. With her slayer senses, blue eyes became ethereal hands caressing heated flesh, gently kneading steel like muscles, finger nails grazing silk smooth skin.

"Fuck," Faith breathed out heavily. She grabbed the whiskey Lindsey had been lazily toying with, an all too knowing smirk lighting his face. _What the fuck_? _Am I nothing more then sex on a stick today_? She tossed down the liquor so quickly it simply seemed to have vanished from the glass. She hastily gestured for a refill.

Being with a woman wasn't new to Faith, and she definitely wasn't adverse to the idea. She had spent more then one night trying to get the stake out of Buffy's ass so she could insert other accoutrements and or digits.

And while she hadn't taken any of the inmates up on their offers, it certainly wasn't because of a lack of interest, there was plenty of that. At first a few even thought they could take what she wasn't willing to part with, it hadn't taken her too long to disabuse them of that notion. She was in prison because she killed a man, beat another, and tortured a third. Prison was supposed to be a penance not a buffet.

"Lindsey," Serena called out as she came close enough so she wouldn't have to shout. "For a moment I thought you had abandoned me." Her voice was the same as Faith remembered, but there was a fundamental difference to its overall quality.

If Faith didn't know better she would say it was happiness.

"Sorry about that," Lindsey replied and Faith could swear it was sincerity, "but I happened to spot an old colleague from L.A. Serena Southerlyn, Faith. Faith, Serena." If Serena was intrigued by the lack of a last name it didn't show on her face.

Blue eyes flashed with surprise as she shifted her gaze from Lindsey to Faith. "No offense, but aren't you a little young to work for Wolfram and Hart?"

"Don't let Faith's youthful looks fool you. She's a real go getter, did a bit of freelance work for Wolfram and Heart."

"Didn't really care for it, the place felt like it was sucking the soul right out of you."

Serena inclined her head, "I know what you mean. I was so glad when Lindsey finally got out of his contract with them. He changed so much after he started working for Wolfram & Heart."

Faith shrugged as she said, "Wouldn't know about that," she picked up her drink, "he always seemed a little slimy to me, but I'm not particularly fond of lawyers to begin with."

"That's too bad," Serena murmured too low to be heard, or so she thought. The way Faith stared at her made Serena reassess her assessment. The girl looked at her as if she knew her, but was seeing her for the first time. It was a speculative look, dark eyes filled with speculation. "So, what are you in New York for, business or plea- personal?"

"A friend of mine, her father's in trouble, so I tagged along. Offer up a little moral support."

Serena's gaze tightened as a brief memory flashed in her eyes. The courthouse, sitting with the Summers, Faith had been there. "Buffy Summers. That's who you're here with. Your friend."

"We go back a way," Faith said leaving the insinuation hanging there. She had no idea why she was flirting with Serena. It was Lockley and she never would have flirted with Kate. Only Lockley was more like a concerned aunt and Serena… Wasn't, but she was. It was all too mixed up for her to sort out.

Much easier to just go with it. Let things sort themselves out later.

Doing that, taking advantage of the situation. It would make her worse then whoever cast the spell in the first place.

Much, much worse.

The door fell into her field as her gaze shifted; trying to find any place to settle that wasn't Lockley. Instantly her mind calculated her chances of exiting the restaurant with a whole skin.

"You'll join us for lunch?" Serena insisted. Her voice sounded forceful… yet pleading, too much of both for her liking.

Faith opened her mouth to decline the invitation when the door burst open, a quartet of black clad thugs, faces covered by dark ski masks, surged into the building, guns held at the ready, aimed at the patrons as they spread out with military like precision. "On the floor!"

"Everyone get down!"

"Get on the floor!"

"Out of there!" One shouted at the bartenders. "Now! Move!"

"Move it! Move it!"

People screamed, quickly moved to follow the orders. Those that hesitated, frozen with fear and indecision, were herded towards the center of the room.

Faith used the mass panic to her advantage, picking up the heavy shot glasses still on the bar. If she hesitated, if she let them gain control of the room her chances of taking them down, without casualties, would be impossible. Right now, with confusion on her side, she had a chance to end it before it became serious.

The heavy sifters flew through the air like guided missiles, each one crashed into a gunman's skull. In a heartbeat half the threat was eliminated. She moved like a dervish as she closed with the third, her left arm whipped back and forth. Her heavy thick bladed knife seemed to appear in the fourth man's right forearm. He screamed; the forty-five fell from his suddenly nerveless hand.

Blood dripped from the wound, ran down the gleaming, razor sharp edge as Faith closed with the last man standing. He must have sensed the danger pressing down on him and spun around to face it, twelve gauge shotgun braced against his hip.

Too late.

Faith was on him.

She slid in low, beneath the barrel of the shotgun. Her right foot kicked up, the blade of her foot striking the shotgun's underbelly, her left foot snapped out, collided violently with his shin and the gunman suddenly found himself doing a split. Muscles tore and his hip popped as he sat awkwardly on the floor. Faith grabbed the shotgun's barrel, the cold steel slapping against her palm. Negligently she smashed the barrel into his forehead. Brown eyes rolled back and the man collapsed in a heap.

Faith scanned the crowd, assessing the situation. Three of the gunmen were down; the only one still up had a knife through his forearm. He was on one knee, gun held in his left hand, it was held steady, but wasn't aimed at her.

Following his aim Faith was only mildly surprised to see he had drawn a bead on Lindsey as he hustled Lockley to the end of the bar. Faith contemplated letting the man take his shot, it might make her life a little easier if he was out of the picture.

Only that would be wrong.

She snapped the stock from the barrel and hurled it like a Frisbee. It spun round and round, slammed into the side of his skull, knocked him over sideways, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Once again she looked around the restaurant; people were starting to get back to their feet. Some already had their cell phones in hand, pressed to their ears. That meant the cops would be here in a couple minutes and they would have a distinct interest in her.

Police having any interest in her was not in her best interest, especially since she was still a wanted felon.

Faith caught Lockley's eyes, saw the wonder in them. And the fear. The woman was afraid of her. Bounding to her feet Faith bolted out the door without looking back.


End file.
